


Super Autistic Star Wars Fanfic

by Garbidge



Category: Star Wars
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garbidge/pseuds/Garbidge
Summary: Faggoty pretentious excuse to justify Ahsoka Tano getting fucked by a dickgirl.No sex til chapter 2, no dickgirls til chapter 3.Warning: contains involuntary TG transformation and extremely offensive pronoun ideology to people who care about that sort of thing.





	1. Imperial

In the waning days of the Old Republic, patriots across the galaxy volunteered to join the clone armies in battle against the Confederacy of Independent Systems, whose plutocratic goals were worth starting a galaxy spanning war and fomenting the dissolution of the government body which had maintained peace and freedom for over a thousand years. One such man, Dolan Casan, a native of the peaceful core world of Chandrila, left his pregnant wife Thyla to join the Republic navy. He would go on to serve as an executive officer on a Venator-class Star Destroyer during the Clone Wars. He would become a fine comrade to the clones serving under him, nay beside him. He would even see a Jedi General with his own eyes. And he would die, fearlessly, uncomprehendingly, and instantaneously when the port conning tower of his vessel was vaporized by a Banking Clan frigate. Father and son met only once, through holographic communication, and young Colan Casan was too young to know.  
The kidnapping of the Chancellor, the Jedi coup, and the restructuring of the Republic into the Empire left a lot of already frazzled nerves on edge, even if they were relieved the war was over. To add to this stress, Thyla was met by a discharged clone carrying a “We regret to inform you…” letter. The bereavement was eased with the clone’s heartfelt and poetic recollection of the deceased Commander Casan, who had been a close and loyal friend during the war.  
“Would that it had been me, a lowly clone bred for the purpose of dying in battle, instead of a citizen of the galaxy we were sworn to protect.”  
The clone felt it was his duty to help take care of Thyla and her son, and he was a welcome comfort in this time of grief. Casan’s childhood is happy and without hardship or want. He is raised by man called Dan. He is told from an early age that Dan is not his real father, but a clone who takes care of his family because his real father died. This matters not to Casan, who loves and reveres Dan as a father nonetheless. As he matures, he grows to revere the father he never met as well.  
As he grows into a man however, his life is marked by perpetually conflicting ideologies regarding the republic, the empire, and the Jedi. How does one reconcile the values long-espoused by Chandrila, a shining beacon of freedom and justice in the galaxy, with the ruthless authoritarian efficiency of the Empire?  
Natives of Chandrila are devoted to the ideals of liberty espoused by the Republic, yet officially support the empire's dedication to order, stability, and peace. As a core world, it was familiar with the Jedi, but the average Chandrilan is unsure whether their betrayal of the republic was institutional or the opportunism of a few individuals. Additionally owing to its status as a core world, it is granted considerable leeway from the strictest edicts of the Emperor. Chandrilans can do what they want on their home planet as long as they pay their tithes and proclaim their loyalty.  
Looking to his stepfather, Casan finds Dan loyal to the Emperor, believing that the Jedi betrayed the Republic and manufactured the Clone Wars. When asked about the Jedi, he is reticent to answer. Dan encountered them only infrequently, and he can only recall a vague sense of unease just before the end of the war – just before the Jedi were purged. Casan’s mother is not particularly political. She was raised believing in the ideals of the Republic but is content with Imperial autocracy as long as it doesn’t disrupt family life.   
Most influential during this period is Senator Mon Mothma, a model citizen of both the Empire and her home planet. Every son and daughter of Chandrila aspires to such levels of incorruptible, selfless statesmanship, and Casan is no exception, holding the utmost respect for her office and ideals.  
So Casan rationalizes the seemingly mutually exclusive ideals of republican Chandrila and Imperial writ. Some rights and freedoms must be given up for security, or only those planets that have proven themselves deserving of self-determination may govern themselves, and so on. Reverence for the veteran father he never knew and the clone stepfather that raised him on stories of battle, honor, camaraderie, and patriotism, sparks Casan's interest in military service and loyalty to the empire.

Casan is growing into a young man. Green eyes, red hair, boyish good looks. Bold, loyal, patriotic - a model citizen.   
To honor his family’s service, he attempts to pursue a career in the military and is accepted to the prestigious Brionelle Memorial Military Academy on Chandrila at the age of 17. He applies to the stormtrooper officer contingent. Training is sufficiently arduous but relatively mild given the political climate of Chandrila. His tendency towards independent thinking and bold creativity, which elsewhere would have resulted in disciplinary action, benefits him greatly in the more liberal atmosphere of Brionelle. These aptitudes lead to him being placed in the Scout Corps where he becomes acquainted with his future fellow officers and friends:  
Sho Shon, ST-891 – blonde, square-jawed, no-nonsense, demon on a speeder bike. A stalwart and pragmatic friend.   
Inya Marin, ST-892 – dark-skinned, lithe frame, sultry demeanor, crack shot. A tomboy, as interested in the activities of men as she is in the men themselves.  
Nil Colchis, ST-3277 – bushy moustache, short and stout, improbably stealthy, incorrigible clown. Clearly joined the military to escape a life of petty crime.  
Casan’s initiative quickly results in him being placed in the position of squad leader – SC-040. After two years of military education and training, Casan graduates Brionelle and is brevetted as a Captain of his Scout Trooper squad BN-CH-17, which its members affectionately call “Bane Squad.” Shon, Marin, and Colchis are each given the rank of Lieutenant. They are going to be assigned to off-world patrol on one of the new Imperial-II Class Star Destroyers, the “Auspicious,” freshly launched from Kuat Drive Yards – indeed, an auspicious berth.  
As a commissioned officer of a well-to-do core system, and as part of the eminent Scout Corps at that, Casan has a small degree of leeway with regard to personalization of his property and the outfitting of his squad. He has a rarely used black dress uniform, but his primary outfit is his biker scout armor: black fatigues covered by white plasteel protection. However he opts for the legal limit of expression permitted by Imperial regulations, having his squad’s boots painted black for identification and to stand apart from other scouts. Additionally, he wears a rank pauldron over his right shoulder as an unmistakable mark of his position. Casan wears his scout armor most of the time, partially to hide his less than fully masculine appearance, but more to retain the respect and deference imperial command imposes. To see the smiles of pride on his family’s face when decked out in full armored regalia, means the world to him.   
Lieutenant Shon is no frills E.I. – Empire Issue – and uses the standard micro blaster and E-11 given to all biker scouts. Colchis is too laid-back to bother specializing; he takes whatever weapon he can get. It doesn’t matter to him; he prefers a hand to hand brawl. Marin doesn’t like anything without advanced targeting optics, because she hates to miss – can’t show off to the boys if they can outshoot you. Casan spurns the minuscule holdout blaster and its ankle holster, instead carrying the full-size version on his belt – officer’s privilege.   
Bane squad has access to Aratech 74-z speeder bikes, far more efficient and effective than the older 614 AvA, though less comfortable for the rider. The men have no problem with them, as they have the suitable protection for riding. Marin however wears riding pants without a codpiece, but the reason and result is not discomfort. It is for an entirely different reason, the same reason any woman enjoys equestrian sports; having a hot, throbbing engine revving between her legs. A reason the teasing little nymphomaniac makes abundantly clear through helmet comms to the rest of the squad.   
“Hey boys!” she yells as she enters the showers, getting a kick out of watching them undress after a day on the training course, all blushing faces and hands trying to hide the fact that they’re all “standing at attention.” It doesn’t alleviate their embarrassment one bit when she bathes at the same time as them.  
On the day Casan is to embark off-world, Mon Mothma herself is present at the ceremony of his induction into the Imperial Navy proper to congratulate his class. Casan has long admired the eminent stateswoman, but finds her behavior stiff, her speech stilted, and her personality aloof, unlike her normally uncompromising professionalism.  
“Brave recruits of the 17th Imperial Muster of Brionelle,” she starts slowly. “I…am so pleased to see that another crop of the Empires finest is prepared to suppress and put down those who would seek to undermine our glorious Emperor's uncompromising authority and control over our fragile galaxy. It is with great pride that I welcome the sons and daughters of Chandrila into his welcoming arms…” she begins, but the audience rapidly loses interest in her perfunctory spiel and grows more attentive to her seemingly flustered demeanor.  
“What’s the matter with her, Captain?” Shon inquires.  
Nil puts his two credits in, “she can hardly speak. Sounds like she’s hung over.”  
“…we live in strange times to be sure, and I cannot shake the feeling that you will all be called to go above and beyond the burden of duty that you must all bear in the coming days...” the Senator continues.   
“Is she going to faint? Casan are you seeing this?” Marin asks, half-worriedly.   
“Yeah, I’m seeing it,” he replies. Few are paying attention to the content of the speech any longer. Casan finds it almost pathetically banal, as if there’s some intentional passive-aggressive disdain for the ridiculous political jargon she’s spouting.  
“…but I know you will meet the challenges in the same manner that all have come before you have. With-“ -her voice nearly breaks- “-discipline, determination, and unwavering commitment to serve…"  
“She looks and sounds so…sad. Mournful,” he says, really to himself.   
“Like a funeral,” Colchis jibes.  
“Perhaps,” Casan posits, “but whose?” That unpleasant question dampened the mood and ended their chatter.  
"Long live the Empire, and long..." There was an audible pause here, one that no one who had been listening missed. "...Long live the Emperor." The final part was far more hushed, as if she was having tremendous difficulty saying those words. Casan swore that some of the officers standing near the podium seemed to be giving Mothma judgmental looks, but they ultimately held their peace.  
What should have been a glorious aerial parade of Imperial shuttles funneling the newest regiment into a monumental starship, ready to embark on a tour of duty outside the core, became a somber dirge of stark, geometric star-hearses.   
Just a scant few days later, Mon Mothma would broadcast an infamous galaxy-wide holonet message, condemning the Emperor’s regime and heralding the official formation of the Rebel Alliance, and the genuine start of the Galactic Civil War, as rebel cells began unifying in purpose and activity. Casan could scarcely believe it, that one of the role models of the universe could become the number one enemy of the state. Suddenly, all Chandrilans in the Imperial armed forces became suspect, and it was up to them to push themselves harder than any other recruit to prove their loyalty to the Empire.

The first few stops on the trip of the Auspicious as it zigzags towards the Outer Rim are uneventful. Dropping off officers at Kuat. Stocking up on provisions from Corellia. Picking up recruits from Hosnian. Drills above Quarzite. Brief liberty at Devaron where Casan purchases a model Venator cruiser to spruce up his austere quarters. He resists the desire to paint it in Republic colors. An opportunity for Casan to prove his loyalty to suspicious superiors finally presents itself at Malastare.  
Some middling Dug official managed to convince the local imperial authorities to assist in the cracking of organized crime syndicates, and the captain of the Auspicious, Lazarus Snor, was ordered by the Sector Moff to respond. Snor was more interested in keeping this trip uneventful so he could enjoy the perks of his cushy appointment as captain of a Star Destroyer, but he was not about to argue with an Imperial Moff. He can kick the can down to the infantry anyway, and Bane squad was happy to oblige.  
Planetside, Casan learns the situation: a group of Pykes and Gran were manufacturing illegal narcotics at a fortified installation in the northern foothills. His team is to reconnoiter and call in an attack by stormtroopers at the opportune moment. Shon, Colchis, and Marin mounted their bikes…

Wink attempted to stifle a yawn in the twilight haze and failed. It was so boring, standing guard for the hyperweed processing plant. No one bothered intruding after the first hapless idiot to do so was shot. Had it not been for the governor's ransom he'd been promised he'd have walked a long time ago.   
“I better get my damn credits,” he mumbled to himself. A snore broke the one-eyed gran out of his musings. Once again, his useless partner had fallen asleep. He gave the pyke a good, swift kick in the side.   
"Wake up, idiot. If I have to be stuck out here, bored and miserable, then it's only fair that someone shares that with me."   
The other guard muttered something under his breath but, after a glare from the mangled eyestalks of his partner, picked up his rifle and at least made enough effort to pretend to be watching over the wall. After a few short minutes the pyke heard a wailing buzz dopplering into aural range.   
“What in the world is that wretched noise,” Wink growled.   
His subordinate brought up his macrobinoculars to witness a lone white-armored speeder-cyclist racing straight towards the compound. Eager to get the gran off his case, the pyke raised his rifle for a bit of target practice.  
Shon was honestly disappointed. Yes, the plan that involved him distracting as many of these scum as he could on his bike had gone off without a hitch, but it had all been too easy. It seemed the simpletons had been rather bored, because as far as he could tell they'd thrown practically every functional vehicle they had at him. Despite this, he found himself effortlessly weaving through their storm of fire. This was supposed to be a test of his skill as a biker, but he felt it was more dangerous weaving through the industrial parks on Chandrila. Oh well, orders are orders…  
“What in the blazing pulsars is going on?” Wink yelled into his comlink. “Some crazy son-of-a-shaak is buzzing around the guard station on a speeder bike! Every worthless sodbuster on this planet knows better than to get close to this facility! I hope somebody alerts the boss, because I ain’t gonna be the guy that has to bring in the body of whatever dead dug walking is out there. Jor Pyke,” he motioned behind him, “make yourself useful and keep an eye out for this fool. Pyke?” He turns around. There’s no-one there…  
Chatter emanates from the comlink lying in the bloodied grass, requesting further speeders to run down the intruder. Colchis picks it up and can’t resist ending the conversation.   
“Wrong number,” he says, snickering to himself. He jauntily trots into the shadows, stifling the urge to whistle…  
Casan follows the trail of bodies to a detached building, with Colchis standing outside with his hands on his hips. “Well what are you waiting for? Let’s bust some skulls.”  
“Are you kidding me Cap? I’m not going in there.”  
“That’s an order LT. I’ll go in first, you cover me.”  
“Siiiigh, you got it Cap.”  
Casan and Colchis cross the threshold into the hyperweed greenhouse, staring right into the befuddled faces of dozens of pyke, gran, and human drug traffickers.  
"Everybody put your hands up. This facility is now under command of the Galactic Empire." The helmet-modulated sound of his voice resonated throughout the cavernous room.  
Colchis walks right back out the door.  
“Nil?”  
“Don’t worry Cap, I’ll keep anybody from sneaking up behind ya.”  
“KILL THAT TROOPER,” the cartel jefe yelled to his men.   
Casan immediately drew his pistol and started blasting away, taking out two of the thugs at once – he could scarcely miss with how many bodies were coming his way.  
Bright flashes burst through the greenhouse windows, shattered glass falling over the plants as laser blasts rent holes through the torsos of gangsters approaching Casan’s flank. His helmet comm flared up:  
"Have I ever told you how nice your butt looks in that uniform?"  
“I told you not to talk about it! You know how embarrassing that is?”  
“You’re welcome, cutie.” He could almost feel the saccharine kiss Inya blew over the radio.  
A horrendous booming echoed in the chamber, and Casan was forced to duck behind a crate to avoid the solid slugs of metal the gang leader's pistol spat at him. He looked up at the glass ceiling above him and a radical thought entered his mind.   
"Auspicious! This is SC-040 requesting walker support at the following coordinates!"   
The pyke that led the gang spat out curses and challenges to the Imperial soldier, then looked up to see... a mechanical avian foot fall through the ceiling on top of him. There was a brief, wet crunch, the harsh clang of a heavy weight falling atop metal, then...silence. Casan, walking out of his cover, saluted the AT-ST’s crew that had just been dropped from a Gozanti cruiser hovering outside the hole in the ceiling. Seeing what had happened to their boss, and the menacing visage the fascia of an AT-ST offered as it began an ominously noisy patrol of the facility’s interior, the gangsters surrendered immediately.   
Casan turned his attention to the mess that the walker left behind, and the preposterous contraption the pyke jefe had dropped. A unique heavy-barreled slugthrower…very rare, most projectile weapons people in the galaxy knew were civilian hunting rifles. Very expensive too, it was probably worth as much the chicken walker that stepped on its most recent owner.   
The doors behind him opened, and Casan watched the rest of his squad move in to inspect the prisoners and cache of narcotics with the dug official, all of them stepping over far more corpses than there had been out there before he'd entered the building.   
"Why thank you, Nil."   
"Anytime, Cap."  
Inya gave him a wink as she walked past. "You and I are gonna need a long talk about respecting personal boundaries in the field after this, Lt. Marin."   
"Oh, don't pretend you didn't like it, sweet-cheeks." Casan was glad the helmet’s visor concealed his red face.  
Constable Pikalto made the closest approximation to a bow that the awkward posture of his species allowed. "Thank you, thank you! A thousand times, thank you! You have no idea how much this will help me...erm, us...Help us on this world!"   
Casan could not help but notice the dug's eyes darting to and from the drugs, like a starving man seeing a feast in front of his eyes; he was practically drooling. He was beginning to suspect the constable wanted the haul for himself. The sound of boots caused everyone to turn around. Lt. Shon stood there with a large cadre of stormtroopers.  
“Ah, I see you found us some friends, Shon!” Colchis called out.  
Casan motioned him over. “Shon, glad you're here.”  
“Reinforcements from the Auspicious, Captain. Orders, Captain?”   
Casan glared at Constable Pikalto then gestured with his thumb to the greenhouse’s contents.   
“Burn it.”  
“Yes, captain.”  
The dug wasn’t willing to argue in the face of Imperial armor towering over it, and the threatening way the Scout Captain was handling that nasty-looking pistol. As Casan returned to the star destroyer in orbit, he reflected on the day’s action. He killed some bad guys with his friends, made the galaxy a safer place and put a corrupt alien in his place, got a cool new gun out of it (he’d figure out how to use the damn thing later). Overall, a prodigious first engagement. Fun, even. Yet it left him yearning for something more, though at the time, he knew not what.   
Over the next year, as the Auspicious makes stops on its route to the Outer Rim, Casan and his compatriots experience many such bouts as they did on Malastare. The men and women of the Auspicious revel in the now frequent excitement of the Mid-Rim that interrupts the boring routine of the Core.   
Boarding actions against slave-trafficking pirates out of Kafrene, where Casan’s fancy slug pistol proves brutally effective against soft targets. It feels good to punish evildoers and save Imperial citizens. Keeping the peace on Takodana by relieving the populace from a blockade of smugglers withholding vital provisions for which they charged exorbitant prices. The Auspicious met extortion with extortion - drop their cargo on the planet or be blasted to smithereens. Military exercises on Eriadu with the planetary defense force under the very command of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. Bane squad was disappointed that the closest they got to meeting the Grand Moff himself was a prerecorded hologram, but at least the war-games kept them on their toes.  
Strikebusting on Sullust. It wasn’t hard getting the SoroSuub employees back in line after locating the real rabble-rousers. The funny-looking Sullustans seemed polite enough to the Empire’s presence, cheerful even, but Casan suspected they were resentful. Their smiles were half-forced, half-sincere, and he wasn’t sure which half he was getting. He couldn’t see why though, Sullust did not apparently chafe under Imperial control, indeed it benefitted from the massive investment the Empire’s fleet-building projects placed into their manufacturing.  
While stationed at Sullust, the Auspicious’ quartermaster manages to requisition several metric tons of replacement materiel, including a crate of fresh-off-the-assembly-line TL-50 repeaters for the armory. Casan’s team is among the first to gain select access, few of those advanced weapons trickle down to stormtrooper NCOs. Most of the stormtroopers would have preferred the quartermaster to requisition better grub anyway.  
During his career as a soldier of the Empire, Casan learns that scout troopers have exceptional latitude in the performance of their duties; they can get away with almost anything and scoff at the commands of almost any other officer in the Imperial armed forces, even outranking ones if they’re not under direct command. Any civilian with a lower status than a planetary governor can hardly get a biker scout to restrain himself if he doesn’t want to. Furthermore, in the field scout troopers get to be referred to by name rather than serial number, and the internecine rivalry this privilege engenders leads to no small degree of resentment from stormtrooper infantry.   
Casan’s commitment to the ideals of the Empire – order through authority – makes him refuse to stoop to such methods though. He never abuses his station’s perks – except to maintain law and order of course. This leaves him with a bit of a reputation as a sentimentalist among his men; he is respected enough by his comrades in Bane squad, having experienced the same kind of rearing on Chandrila, but enlisted men from tougher and more pragmatic systems in the galaxy hold him a little bit in contempt. 

Casan has come to the realization that he is little more than a glorified traffic cop. In retrospect, he understands that’s essentially what he’s been since Malastare. Since leaving Chandrila really. For eight months, he has been part of the military garrison to secure the Icnus system, a few parsecs away from Utapau. A lightly populated world of yucca deserts, tall rocky buttes, deep twisting canyons, and pine-covered highlands. Many arid planets occupy this region of space.  
An inexplicably civilized frontier world, the twenty million or so inhabitants spread across the planet must have been colonies of a religious order because there was scarcely a vandal, shoplifter, or jaywalker, let alone a rebel threatening the stability of the Empire. Icnus was as far away from rebel activity and danger as there could possibly be, it was a prime haven for Captain Snor to whittle away his years of service. If Casan knew who Snor bribed to get such a cozy outpost to fade away into obscurity on, he’d shoot them both. He’d probably get away with it too, but he brushed such thoughts aside.  
So here he sat, twiddling his thumbs in the barracks, trying to pass time with Shon, Marin, and Colchis, who were doing a much worse job than he at keeping their discontent to themselves.  
“I’m hungry,” said Marin.  
“I’m bored,” said Shon.  
“I’m dead,” said Colchis.  
“Listen guys, I know it’s been tough being cooped up on this planet, but it’s all for the best,” Casan struggled to say through gritted teeth.   
“Don’t give us that bull, Captain, we’ve heard this tired story before.”  
“Go ride a bike, Shon.”  
“I’m sick of riding, Captain, I’ve been riding all day. It’s the only thing there is to do on this planet besides screw around on the holonet.”  
“Or hunt reptars, but that’s all we’ve been eating for weeks. Day after day, meal after meal, dino bacon for breakfast, dino burgers for lunch, dino steaks for dinner. I’m sick of it, man,” Inya complained.  
“Huh,” Shon grunted absentmindedly, a tic he made after reading any curious holonet news article.  
“What is it this time, Shon,” Inya began, “are Hutts arguing with SPETA over animal treatment again? The rebels finally start fielding ships bigger than 100 meters?”  
“No, a Senate report of some sort of strange mining accident on a backwater planet.”  
“Any chance it’s us they’re talking about,” Colchis mused sarcastically.  
“No such luck, it’s really out in the boonies, Unknown Regions. Some ancient city in the Jedha system.”  
“Jedha,” Casan inquired. “That something to do with Jedi?”  
“Seems like it had some spiritual connection, like a pilgrimage site. The report doesn’t give many details. Some equipment failure seemed to tear up the city, doesn’t sound like there’s anything left.”  
“Never knew such a place existed,” Marin commented.  
“Sounds like it doesn’t exist anymore,” Nil said.  
“I would have liked to have seen it,” Casan uttered wistfully. Then he went back to twiddling his thumbs.

The next morning Casan entered the barracks with a spring in his step.  
“Alright team, gear up! I got some good news, command just ordered the monthly planetwide inspection of Imperial storage facilities, and Bane squad popped up in the duty roster.”  
“Bane squad?” Colchis interjected. “More like bean squad! All we do is run errands for beancounters.”  
"Yeah, I thought we were supposed to be the big guys around here," Marin added.  
“Come on team, we’ll be working with Gundark squad and Able squad, they’re just as itchy to get out and do something as we are. Let’s get moving, it’ll be something to keep us busy for the next few days at least.”  
“Yes, captain,” they sighed in unison as they grabbed their helmets.  
Splitting up in teams of two, the biker squadrons of the Auspicious garrison fanned out to conduct the routine inspections. In the late afternoon, an anomaly interrupts their activity.  
"Alright Lt. Shon, we just need to take inventory of a couple of more warehouses, then we can call it a day. Let's head to the next one. Which direction?"  
"Southwest, Captain, 200 kilometers. Warehouse 48. Huh."  
“What ‘huh’?”  
“That station hasn’t entered the rotation before. There are no records of anybody having ever entered or left the facility.”  
“Doesn’t matter. Orders are orders. Let’s get going.”  
Thirty-five minutes later, Captain Casan is cursing a storm over the helmet radio.   
“Gee, Colan, where did you learn language like that,” Lt. Marin chimed in, “and when are you gonna speak to me that way?”  
“One of these days,” Casan growled angrily, “I’m going to hold you to that, lieutenant.” He wondered if Inya was serious. He wondered if he was serious. But for the time being he was more concerned with how frightened out if his wits he was. The storage facility, nested within a small canyon at the intersection of two jagged mountain systems, was a ghost town. Every other stop along his route was bustling with workers moving goods around, technicians tending to machinery, small freighters landing, loading, and taking off. Here, there was nothing but dust and tumbleweeds. The eeriness unmanned Casan more than any firefight ever had.  
"This place is empty! Where are all the personnel," Casan yelled.  
"Central command has been receiving the correct authentication codes and status transmissions at the determined intervals, Captain, but it doesn't look as though anyone has ever come here in person in almost ten months."  
“It doesn't look like there's even been a single living thing around here the past ten months. Ten months, ten months, we haven’t even been in this system ten months. I don't like this, I don’t like this at all.”  
“If I may, Captain, there’s plenty of big critters around. If those reptars congregated in a large enough flock, they might have posed a threat to the night watch, and surprised the next shift. You suppose that might have been the case, Captain?”  
“Now I'm definitely not going in until our troop transports get here, that doesn’t put me at ease one bit. Get Auspicious on the horn; see if you can get them to send down a dropship or two for reinforcements."  
"Yes, Captain."  
A few minutes later, Casan spies the dust trails of speeder bikes in the distance, followed at length by an AT-ST; Marin and Colchis no doubt, here to laugh incredulously at his overly cautious behavior. He also hears the tell-tale whine of a Sentinel lander, approaching to deploy a platoon of stormtroopers. Casan pulls the TL-50 out of his speeder’s saddle-bag, and takes point, ordering the men to investigate the facility and search for any sign of its occupants.   
He enters the primary warehouse, a cavernous structure filled with stacks of standardized storage containers as far as the eye could see. The Imperial troops weave between the alleyways formed by the crates in an attempt to wind their way towards a foreman’s office.   
“Lt. Shon,” Casan keyed his mic.  
“Yes, Captain.”  
“The room is lit.”  
“Yes, Captain.”  
“That means this facility is in use,” Marin chimed in.  
“Stay vigilant,” Casan reminded.   
Vigilance would do no good. A cloaked figure lurking in the shadows of the gantries activates a remote. Outside, the walker explodes, a trail of smoke from a warehouse window tracing the path of a missile fired from inside. The shadowy warehouse interior became painfully bright as the ceiling floodlights and a flurry of laser blasts filled the area.  
“OUT! OUT! EVERYBODY OUT! EVERYBODY GET OUT OF HERE! ALL MEN RETREAT, MAKE FOR THE EXIT,” Casan screamed frantically. The figure in the scaffolding above followed.  
It became clear that this was the Rebellion they’d heard about. An organized assault was taking place against them by well-trained uniformed soldiers. What’s worse, they were actually managing to hit the stormtroopers with their weapons fire. He was letting loose with the heavy repeater, and was sure he’d downed a couple of them, but he couldn’t tell in the maze of containers and cloud of smoke.  
"Damn it, Casan, get over here!" Shon called out above the storm of blaster fire.   
Everything was rapidly falling to pieces. Quite literally if one took the warehouse's condition into account. On top of having to duck frustratingly accurate rebel fire, Casan could not help but feel like he was being singled out specifically somehow. Here and there he swore he saw a cloaked figure effortlessly darting through the lines of fire, but he could not be sure amidst the confusion of battle. Regardless, his main focus was getting himself and his squad out of this mess.   
"This is SC-040 requesting reinforcements at my position! We're being overrun here!"   
Even as he sent the message, he felt quite sure that those extra troopers would not be of much help to him. Sprinting as hard as he could, he managed to get to Shon and Marin's position, Colchis had already gotten the grunts outside. Casan turned around, to see dozens of rebel fighters closing in.   
The three scouts got to their feet and started moving as fast as they could, but Shon was slowing them down, having been hit in the leg. His squadmates helped him forward, but Casan saw out of the corner of his eye a rebel perched on top of a crate, hefting a large pipe-shaped object. With a panicked lunge, he hurls Marin and Shon forward with every ounce of his strength, just as the insurgent rocket brought down a hail of rubble and twisted metal between them. Egress was blocked and he was separated from his men.   
Relieved to hear his squad’s chatter on the helmet comlink, he informed them he’d try to find another way out. His hopes were quickly dashed when he found himself at a dead end, and hears the nearing footsteps of enemy troops. Calmed down by the finality of the situation, Casan steels his nerves, preparing for the inevitable…  
The cloaked figure heads the men off, eager to reach the isolated trooper before the rest of the rebels. It reaches out with its senses and feels something different about this trooper, something kind, a soul not tainted by aspirations of personal gain or clouded blind patriotism. There was no blind hatred of the enemy in this one, no cruel desire to climb the ranks over the bodies of the slain. There was instead a genuine desire to help people, to improve the galaxy as a whole.  
It hesitates slightly as it approaches to dispatch the lone scout, leaving him the opportunity to notice its presence...   
Out of the corner of his eye, Casan watched the cloaked figure leap from the shadows to land gracefully on the floor twenty meters in front of him. Whirling around, he unloaded with the repeater...only to feel it suddenly and violently yanked out of his hands by an unknown force. He was stunned for just a second, then reached for his slugthrower. If he was going to die here, he certainly wasn't going to die without making one last act of defiance.   
The figure reached for a weapon of its own., producing a small cylindrical object. The figure activated it, revealing a luminescent white blade. Casan’s jaw dropped behind his helmet, and knew it could only be one thing. Taking advantage of his distraction, the figure lunged forward in an impossibly fast acrobatic twirl. There was a mercifully brief, sharp sting, an intense burning sensation, and the out-of-place aroma of burnt meat. Casan watched in what seemed to be slow-motion as his right arm appeared to break halfway between the wrist and the elbow and then fly cleanly away, taking the glove and gun with it. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor as the pain finally kicked in.  
The hooded figure reveals itself, a female togruta. She kneels in front of the incapacitated trooper clutching his stump in agony and lifts his visor to view his face. She senses nothing more than a frightened young boy hiding behind the armor. A painful and familiar memory overwhelms her; at once she attempts to comfort him before he loses consciousness. The rebel troops arrive. A heavy-set, war-weary, older man advises killing the wounded trooper to cover their tracks.   
"We need to leave, let's shoot this one and get out of here."  
The togruta stays them. "No. That's not how we operate.” She turns her attention back to Casan. “Don't worry, we're not going to hurt you...er, anymore. Let's get that helmet off you."  
"Damn me, he's just a boy," the stout man says in shock.   
"Mother of moons, he's fainted," a female commando gasps.  
"What did you think they were, droids? Monsters?” the togruta asked. "The helmets hide their faces but our enemies are just as much people as you and I are. If we go around slaughtering those who cannot fight back, how are we any different from the Empire?"  
"Somebody get a medkit," another trooper calls out as the team of rebels closes in on the unconscious Casan.  
The big man pulls the togruta aside and whispers a question to her. “What happened to his arm? Did you do that Rosie?”  
“…I…just snuck up on him…with a vibroblade – he fought. I had no option.”  
“Yeah, then why’s the stump burnt? Vibroblades don’t cauterize.”  
“I said it was a vibroblade,” she insisted adamantly.  
“Alright, Rosie, alright,” the fat man said defensively. He turned to the group and yelled out, “Get him on the ship, we can’t waste more time here.”

Casan is taken prisoner by the Rebel Alliance. The rebels, eager to make a quick exit before Imperials arrive in force, take him along to their ship. Colchis, Shon, and Marin gaze from outside in impotent rage as a Hammerhead corvette hidden in the warehouse blasts its way out through the top of the building, shoots past the inactive star destroyer in orbit and its witless captain, and launches into hyperspace.

A message reaches a house on Chandrila. SC-040. Casan, Colan. Missing in Action, presumed dead.  
In deep space, a motley assortment of ships crowds around a Nebulon-B frigate.  
Light floods Casan’s eyes. Not overly bright like the floodlights in the warehouse, softer fluorescent ceiling lights. He instinctively raises his arm to scratch an itch on his face and sees his right hand is still there. He looks around; he’s lying on a cot surrounded by medical equipment. A K-series security droid in an unusual livery of white and red stands motionless in the corner. It had a brightly painted designation number on the front of its chest: “Hello, my name is K-LY6!” Decidedly non-regulation. He must be in an infirmary, but the last thing he remembers was…no, it couldn’t be. He’s still alive.   
The droid’s eyes light up, noticing a sudden burst of movement in the room, and it turns to face him, generating a garbled electronic noise indicative of binary speech; it was signaling outside. The room’s bulkhead door slides open and Casan’s nightmare enters the room – the togruta he saw on Icnus. Spooked, he attempts to leap from the table and find some means of defense, but his legs are strapped down with metal binders.  
“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the alien woman says. “Sorry about your hand, I saw to it that Dr. Fry gave you a proper replacement, it was the least I could do.”  
"YOU! What's going on here? Where am I?"  
“You’re welcome!” the droid cheerily added in a modulated genderless voice, paying no heed to the patient’s outburst.  
The togruta smiled gently. "You're on the Penitent Man, an EF76 warship. As you might have guessed, you're a prisoner of the Alliance to restore the Republic."  
Casan spat. "I figured that. Why bother taking me alive, rebel scum? Do you want information? Give me the worst you got, you’re getting nothing from me. I won’t be broken by the likes of you, no matter what freakish powers you have!"  
The togruta had to struggle to stifle a laugh. "If I went to all the trouble of getting you a replacement hand, complete with synth-flesh,” she said, grabbing his hand and showing him the diagnostic panel behind the wrist,” do you honestly think I'd torture you?” He jerked his hand back. “No, that's not how we operate here. Besides, Mon Mothma would be displeased if I treated one of her fellow Chandrilans with any less care."  
At that, Casan perked up. “Mon Mothma?” he asked, rubbing his wrist. He still felt the sting of her treasonous betrayal, same as he felt the phantom sting of that energy blade slicing through his arm, but always held out hope it wasn’t true. “What does she have to do with it?”  
“She’s the leader of the Alliance to Restore the Republic.”  
Had he not been restrained, he would have made good effort to slap the togruta for such an insult, even though he knew the truth of her words.  
“That’s impossible, she was a prominent imperial senator, a paragon of virtue and loyalty! A role model for citizens throughout the galaxy.”   
“Exactly. That’s why she leads the Rebellion. She’s loyal to the ideals of the Republic.”  
Here he paused a moment. “You’re trying to trick me. She may have had her grievances with the Emperor, but she’d never stoop as low as that.”  
She looked straight into his eyes. “Do you really believe that?”   
No, he didn’t. He always knew he didn’t. She knew he didn’t. But he wouldn’t admit it he’d been fooling himself all these years. Disconcerted, he tries to change the subject.  
“…well what about that lightsaber? I know what you are; a Jedi. I’ve read about your kind, and how they attempted to destroy the Republic.”  
“Both of those accusations are false. I am no Jedi. And you have been deceived by your Emperor – it is the Empire that destroyed the Republic then, and continues to destroy now.”  
“What do you mean,” he asked suspiciously about that last statement.  
"Alderaan. It's gone. Destroyed by the empire."  
The silence was deafening.   
"Lies. It'd take half the starfleet to glass a whole planet, and the Empire has never once devoted that much firepower to one system, no matter how unruly. Moreover, why would the Empire destroy a planet as compliant and peaceful as Alderaan?"  
There was sadness in the togruta's eyes."Because Alderaan was harboring the rebellion. And the Empire needed to make an example. And it wasn't an orbital bombardment; not a traditional one, anyway. The planet is gone. "  
Incredulous, Casan blurted, “and what is that supposed to mean?”  
“Blown to smithereens by the Empire’s terrible new weapon along with its population of two billion souls. The Death Star, a battle station with the power to obliterate an entire planet.”  
“Ridiculous. Give me one reason for me to trust you,” Casan said, struggling in his binds.  
“How about several?” She turned to the droid. “Kelly?”   
The droid – that must be Kelly, Casan thought – activated a terminal to bring up a suite of Imperial Holonet stations. Every news outlet in the galaxy was in an uproar.  
“-we have numerous reports of live feeds and communications from the Alderaan system going dark-“  
“-atomized the entire planet with its superlaser of immeasurable-“  
“-is an outrage! The Duro Congress hereby announces its full support for the Alliance-“  
“-watch ten, tear-jerking interviews with off-world survivors-“  
“-the one-hundred mile (that’s one-sixty kilometers) battle station seems to have been responsible for two other explosions-“  
“-the treasonous rebel stronghold of Alderaan as a matter of galactic security-"  
“-Kip Dunslow from Corellian Broadcasting Corporation reporting live from the Alderaan system. As you can see all that remains is a field of scorched rubble-“  
“-disbanded the Imperial Senate-“  
“-the noble pilots of the Rebellion strike a blow for peace and freedom-“  
“-I’m sure Grand Moff Tarkin had a good cause for his actions, it’s a tragedy yes, but that’s the price of security-“  
Casan gazed in horrified disbelief at the broadcasts that flashed before his eyes; talking heads arguing, leaked streams of the Battle of Yavin, official imperial pronouncements, recruitment ads for the rebellion, the sheer volume of content unable to be silenced by Imperial censors. All the color drained from Casan's face.   
“…but…core world…had friends…Senator Organa…the regency…” He tried and failed to form a thought. "No...no this cannot be. It's too horrible it's...it's..."  
The togruta cut him off with a sad shake of her head.   
"Evil. Pure and simple. I'll leave you alone for a bit, let you sort this out."  
She leaves the room with a nod to the droid while Casan buries his head in his hands.  
Half an hour later, after lengthy discussion with the man who helmed the ship, the Togruta returned to the monitor station outside the room.  
“How is he, Connel?” she asked.   
“He’s just been sittin’ there the whole time Rosie, as if he was waitin’ for you to get back,” said the stocky rebel sergeant from the warehouse. “We unfastened the binders like you said, and Kelly’s been standin’ guard, but he never even bothered to get off the bed, let alone try to get out.”  
She walks in, the door whooshing open.  
“Are you ok?” she asks.  
“Patient 9210 has perfect vitals and is very well-behaved!” Not the answer she was looking for, Kelly.  
“You realize the door was unlocked? You could have come out at any time.”  
“Why would you even do that,” Casan asked, more curious than critical.  
“Because the Alliance can always use another helping hand.” She grimaced at the bad taste of what she just said. “I know it’s tough; it’s not every day one has their faith in a higher authority shattered. But I know you want to do something meaningful, to help the galaxy. You still have that chance,” the woman says, offering her hand.  
“I guess I don’t really have a choice,” Casan says with faux resignation, taking her hand while trying to hold back a smile.  
“Wonderful,” she smiles back.  
“I suppose I should have been more grateful to you for treating me so well…”  
“Don’t worry about it. In the meantime, you can share a bunk with me until we can find a suitable place for you in the Alliance.”   
“Well thanks, I really appreciate it. I’m Casan by the way. Colan Casan.”  
“You can call me Rosie.”


	2. Rebel

Lightyears away, Shon, Marin, and Colchis mix rage and mourning at the insidious defeat at Yavin and the crushing loss of their friend. Cleaning out his quarters, Marin spots the model Venator the captain had. She picks it up, regards it briefly, and then discards it, delivered to the trash compactor.  
Much to his chagrin but not surprisingly, Casan is stripped of his imperial rank and inducted into the Alliance hierarchy as a corporal. When he objects at the extent of the demotion, Commander Ruskert, the leader of this detachment of the Rebel fleet, informs him he should consider himself lucky he’s treated so leniently, and that if he makes himself useful he might make sergeant by the time the war is over. This is hampered by Casan’s reluctance to kill his former fellow imperials, knowing them for the men and women they are.  
“If Little Miss Palpatine here suddenly has qualms over committing violence, then may I suggest shuffle around crates or sweep floors. Rear-line support and logistics are an inglorious but valuable aspect of war, and it might teach you a little something about respect,” growls the gruff and grizzled Ruskert.  
The commander’s balk at the sincerity of his defection wounds his pride worse than the demotion. Furthermore, Casan shudders at the thought of his talents being wasted staring at a screen or worse, scrubbing down the head. He scrambles for an idea that can prove his willingness to fight to restore peace and freedom to the galaxy, as well as ease his conscience to the greatest extent; and perhaps, gain the admiration of Rosie. How to serve the rebellion and minimize the loss of life at the same time…AHA!  
“That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.”  
“No, I’m serious, it’s called the Devaronian fire drill,” Casan tries to explain.  
“Falumpaset feathers,” Ruskert chides again.  
With a hint of sympathy Connel asks “are you crazy son?”  
Rosie responds from the corner of the ready room. “Hear him out.” When the togruta woman speaks up, the others shut up.  
“Thanks, Rosie. Listen, I’m dead certain-“ Ruskert coughs loudly “-I can pull this off. As a scout trooper, I had a special place within imperial hierarchy. We got to operate outside the chain of command, or you might say outside the law, quite frequently.”  
“There’s a surprise,” said the commander.  
“Shh.”  
Casan continues, “even though our official ranks were not that high, the different command structure of the branch and the egotism and independent streak the corps fostered permitted us to get away with almost anything. If you act all imperious and commanding toward someone while you wear that suit of armor, you can bully them into doing just about anything you want. It’s all about image. Act superior, you will be treated as a superior. That’s the chink in imperial armor. As long as there aren’t any admirals or moffs around, you’re safe from everyone outside the corps. If you have a network in place on the inside like you did on Icnus, we could get away with anything.”  
Connel airs his misgivings. “Sounds too good to be true, we’ve had operatives work in disguise before, it’s never more than a temporary arrangement.”  
“Standard buckets?” Casan asks the older man, referring to the helmet of the stormtrooper.  
“Yeah, that’s all this outfit’s ever gotten a hold of before,” he replies  
“Commander, if you give me two men and a stolen shuttle I can convince the nearest quartermaster to get you shield, generators, weapons, fuel cells; you name it, I guarantee it.”  
“Give the kid a chance commander, it’s worth a shot.”  
“Frankly, I’m not convinced…but I’ll let Rosie decide.”  
Casan turns to her, curious as to why the leader of this rebel cell would defer to the…Force user.  
"The less we actually have to fight, the less a chance we have to die, and the more we can go on serving the rebellion. Besides, a bloodless victory always looks good to those sitting on the fence."  
“You got one chance,” the exasperated commander said with finality.

Sullust. A Sentinel-class shuttle lands at an isolated supply depot in one of the less geologically active sectors of the planet. Three scout troopers walk out. The leader is wearing black jackboots. He carries a strange pistol on his hip and swaggers confidently. A few tufts of grass grow here and there in the volcanic rock. Several Sullustans are busy moving crates of equipment while a duo of magmatroopers and an officer oversee them. The officer, surprised at the intrusion, moves to greet the lead scout.  
“To what do we owe this visit, Captain,” he asks obsequiously.  
The biker scout looks at his rank codes and uniform color. Lieutenant. Army. Piece of cake.  
“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR,” he barks angrily. “THIS GEAR WAS SUPPOSED TO BE IN PINYUMB CITY AN HOUR AGO!”  
“Sir, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, we received no work orders for-“  
“Are you questioning me, lieutenant,” the scout’s voice dropped to a threatening whisper.  
“N-n-no sir – I m-mean Captain – I mean-“  
“Lieutenant,” the scout captain continued ominously, “if the eight crates those aliens are handling are not on that ship in the next sixty seconds, you are going to be swimming in a lava flow.”  
“Y-yes, sir!” the underling squeaked. He ordered the Sullustan workers to move the containers, and even rushed to work himself while the three scouts watched. Within moments most of the surface gear was in the shuttle’s hull, and the scouts moved to return to their ship. As the lead scout stepped up the boarding ramp he turned to the supply lieutenant to offer some words of advice.  
“You ought to pay those alien peons more. They just saved your life,” he said, hand patting the strange pistol on his hip menacingly.  
The officer gulped audibly. The ramp retracted. The shuttle took off.  
Meanwhile, in hyperspace…  
“That was fantastic kid! I can’t believe I ever fit in that damn suit, I nearly busted out of it! Couldn’t tell whether I was gonna die of fear or laughter,” Connel relates in a post-action adrenaline high.  
“What, that? It was nothing. I pulled stunts like that with my squad all the time.” Casan cringes at the poor choice of words. “I just hope the commander appreciates it. Those provisions sure could help out the Rebellion.”  
“You’re too modest, kid, you just pulled a bigger single haul of munitions in an hour than we’ve made in two years of raids, and without firing a shot to boot! Carefully setting up a false network grid to siphon off supplies from Icnus was nothing compared to that, even before you waltzed in and blew the whole thing. That oughta help you sleep at night.”  
“Really?” he asks excitedly. More cautiously he probes, “do you think Rosie will be impressed?”  
“Sure, of course she – say what are you gettin’ at? You better keep your eyes to the ground and your hands to yourself.”  
Casan prods, half-intrigued, half-on edge, “why’s that?”  
“Oh I could tell you a hundred stories about her, each more phony than the last. Us enlisted men been thinkin’ up tall-tales about her to keep ourselves entertained for ages, but let me tell you somethin’ kid; she’s off-limits. Damaged goods, I’d bet. Must have been somethin’ bad in her past. She doesn’t let anyone get too close. Oh, she’s a good humor alright, in addition to bein’ a good sneak and a good fighter, but there’s somethin’ off about her. You can see it in her eyes. And there’s that wierding way she has about her, that reminds us a little bit too much of some a certain religion the Empire proscribed, but you didn’t hear that from me. So drink with her in the canteen all you like, but don’t push your luck or that hand might not be the last thing lopped off your body.”  
“Thanks, I’ll…keep that in mind.”

Casan meets with similar success in the outer rim over the next few months, at Naboo and Rodia where the native population often conspired with them to scam the Empire, and even as far coreward as Abednedo. He got to work with Major Derlin’s commandos on the Abednedo job, and the Major put in a good word for him to Ruskert. In reluctant but relieved recognition of his usefulness, he grants him the provisional rank of acting lieutenant. It’s not quite as good as his old rank, but it’s symbolic of his value to the war effort, and that’s good enough for now.  
When he wasn’t operating on the ground, he got to fill in for the shorthanded Rebel naval crews; all hands were expected to pitch in at whatever duty needed filling, regardless of experience. For Casan, it was like a dream come true serving on a warship just like his father, whether it was technical maintenance, custodial, or lucky enough to fill in for major systems management.  
His most illuminating experience came during a raid at Glee Anselm. The Nautolan homeworld had reported a lone, poorly-staffed star destroyer left for occupation, and a large contingent of rebel frigates and other light warships were sent to disable it. Casan was assigned to assist in manning the port dual-turbolaser turret station, where Rett Carlovan, a big-chinned man who Casan had seen on Icnus and had accompanied him to Sullust, was usually in charge of gunnery.  
“Alright Imp, set yourself down” he said, gesturing to a two-seated cubicle filled with dials, monitors, computer terminals, and levers.  
“Don’t call me that, I joined the Alliance in good faith.”  
“So did half the crew of this ship, you’re nothing special. That work on Sullust was special LT, but now we’re on my turf, so siddown and do as I say.”  
After a quick briefing on the operation of the guns, warning klaxons lit up as a loudspeaker blared, “Warning, hyperspace egress imminent, prepare for combat.” Rett took his seat opposite managing fire control.  
“You ready for this, LT?”  
“I was born for this,” Casan replied excitedly.  
“Bantha poodoo, cockiness like that’ll get you blasted into deep space. Just traverse the gun where I say, and pull the firing lever when I say, got it?”  
“Yes sir, I understand,” he replied more humbly.  
A moment later, Casan felt a jolt and his viewscreen changed from the shifting blue of hyperspace to static and chaos. Dozens of small corvettes and gunships were already engaged with the star destroyer and its Arquitens and Gozanti escorts above a bluish-green world, and the Penitent Man was one of six similar frigates to have jumped in. There seemed to be a few TIE fighters roaming around aimlessly, firing absentmindedly at whatever ship seemed convenient, but no apparent Alliance snubfighters. His brief reverie at the sight of a real battle in space was broken by Rett.  
“Light cruiser at thirty-point-oh-nine degrees, shift to traverse…” he said with deadpan severity.  
Casan followed his instructions and pawed the controls appropriately. A bright red reticle appeared on the crackling viewscreen and centered itself on the nearest Arquitens’ hull.  
“…fire.” Casan pulled backwards on the firing throttle and felt the cubicle shake as the Nebulon’s weapons batteries let loose. He let the lever spring back forward.  
“Fire.” Casan made the motions again. “Fire.” Again. On and on until Carlovan ordered an adjustment to the barbettes firing arc, and it repeated again. Casan suddenly felt a gnawing sense of unease; boredom at the routine and repetitive labor and terror at his total lack of awareness of the battle beyond his screen. Several tense minutes pass and suddenly Casan is forced to contemplate the gravity of his routine pull of the firing lever when the Arquitens’ bridge pops into a staticky flare of fire on his screen and splits down the middle.  
Rett regains his personality for an instant to slap him on the back and say, “fantastic job LT! Now comes the real fun!” Then he returns to his monotone to give Casan firing coordinates for the star destroyer.  
Casan doesn’t feel like he’s having fun at all. He tries to brush the thought of the crew of that Imperial cruiser from his mind as he returns to the dull routine. Minutes pass. A green bolt from the ISD’s turbolaser careens toward his monitor and he flinches as the frigate’s shields dissipate the stray shot. Carlovan doesn’t notice. Another few minutes and a Dornean gunship atomizes when it gets too close to the flailing star destroyer’s guns. Interminable eons pass the likes of which he never felt as a groundpounder – in reality it’s only about half an hour. He is not cut out for space battles like this.  
“Warning: Fighters inbound,” the loudspeaker blares.  
“Ha ha! That sucker’s shields must be down. You’re doin’ great Case,” Rett burst.  
“What? I thought all the TIEs were gone by now,” Casan says, returning to his screen to view the diminishing battle.  
“Not their fighters LT, ours.”  
A few seconds later a mixed squadron of A-wings, X-wings, and Y-wings zoom past Casan’s screen towards the ISD’s bridge. They make a pass…and nothing. The fighters zoom away to safety as the star destroyer keeps up its erratic fire. Rett realizes what the fighters just did and pries himself out of his seat, but not in time to prevent Casan from witnessing the effects of the hyperspace buoys the rebel fighters launched. His jaws drop as a massive oblong shape exits lightspeed right on top of the star destroyer. The screen is too fuzzy to make out, but it’s easily as large, and possibly larger than the ISD. What it was puzzled Casan until it locked on tractor beams and took the star destroyer along with it when it jumped away.  
“What in the galaxy was THAT?”  
“I don’t think you were authorized to see that,” Rett replied sheepishly.  
“Lieutenant Casan, it’s time for you to leave,” a voice behind them spoke. Standing at the entryway to the fire control room was the togruta.  
“Rosie, was that thing a ship? That wasn’t Separatist surplus was it?”  
“I said get out, immediately. You didn’t see anything.”  
“What do you mean, ‘I didn’t see anything?’ You mean to tell me that-“  
She lifted her hand, but then thought better of it; she rested it on his shoulder and grasped tightly instead. “You saw nothing.”  
Casan wasn’t stupid; he got the picture. “Yes, ma’am.”  
“You’re relieved of duty, Lieutenant. And you are not to exit quarters without an escort.”

Stuck sharing quarters with his togruta handler. That last skirmish in space put a stop to both his ground and space actions, and he was cooped up with her for most of the day, aside from routine training, maintenance, and meals. It could be worse. The berth was austere, but relatively spacious, and well-supplied with amenities.  
She’d kept to herself up to this point, and the strangeness of her offering to take in another resident was not lost on the crew of the Penitent Man. Though a degree of comradeship had grown during the subterfuge excursions, she remained firmly aloof. Rosie’s introversion rendered the situation awkward beyond the limits of Casan’s tolerability; he could heed Connel’s warning no longer.  
"Hey, Rosie, how come you never talk about the Clone Wars, or what you did before the Empire took over? You lived through them, right?"  
This was an unwelcome but not unsurprising intrusion. "Yes, I did,” she sighed. “A lot happened back then. There are things about my past that I would prefer not to speak about. Nothing against you, mind. There's just a lot of bad memories in there."  
He left it at that for the time being. The young soldier was hardly deterred, however. Every mission, indeed, almost every day he tried his luck with peering into Rosie's murky past. And always, the answer was the same; frustratingly vague, always hinting at an infinitely greater knowledge than the facade she tried to maintain.  
“So…” Casan started awkwardly, trying to think of any topic that didn’t involve that laser sword, “how did you know I came from Chandrila?”  
A slight pause. “The haircut. Typical Chandrilan. Much like Mon Mothma.”  
Not appreciating the comparison to a girl, he changed the subject.  
"I always heard the old republic used to be a lot like home, but on a grander scale. How would you describe it?”  
"It wasn't perfect, I'll admit that much. But it was better than the tyranny of the empire. People tried to come together to solve their problems rather than bow their heads and remain silent out of fear."  
The look she gave him suggested that was all she was going to say. Maybe she won't open up because she thinks I'm just interrogating her, he thought. Maybe he’s been going about this all wrong.  
One day, Casan tried a different tactic.  
“Say, Rosie, did I ever tell you my father died in the Clone Wars?"  
The togruta looked at him across the room, with a mien of pity. "No, you didn't. I imagine that must have been...difficult for you and your mother."  
"Well, not as hard as you think. I was raised by a clone step-father."  
A curious mix of emotions reflected in the togruta's blue eyes. "That's...unexpected actually. Did he tell you much about the war?"  
Casan shook his head. "Barely anything beyond the fact that there was a war and that they fought a lot of droids and a lot of his brothers died over the course of it. I always tried to get more out of him, but he would always shut me down. He hardly ever brought up my real father, who I never really knew. He only told me he was a cunning warrior and a good friend."  
There were a lot of people she knew like that.  
“Would you…really like to know about the Clone Wars?”  
“If you’re willing to divulge, but I don’t want to pry,” Casan replied with a mix of polite sincerity and strategic reverse psychology.  
Understanding full well what he was doing to her, but sensing a kindred soul, Rosie lets the dam break. Now, instead of spending their nights on separate beds on opposite sides of the room, silently lying with their backs facing each other at all times, they move their beds closer together so they can have a real conversation.  
One week she regales him with humorous stories of an affable Weequay pirate and his gang of cutthroats, the next she’s reciting all the technical details and identifying attributes of Separatist droids, tanks, and starships. Casan listens with rapt enthusiasm as she relates thrilling tales of intrigue on Mandalore, and the terror of being tracked by bloodthirsty Trandoshan man-hunters. He laughs when she tells dirty Mon Calamari jokes and cringes when she makes bad puns. He learns how to distinguish dangerous predatory mountain rancors from the peaceful herbivorous jungle species. He can scarcely believe the story she tells of being captive to cruel Zygerrians; he thought slavery was outlawed long before the Empire, but blushes at his naivete.  
For months he experiences a host of spectacles as vividly as if he was there, but constantly gets the feeling that Rosie is going to extreme lengths to avoid mentioning the obvious and necessary fact that lay before her; every historical narrative, no matter how propagandized, relies on the bald-faced truth that Jedi led clones in battle. She has gone to considerable effort to omit any mentions of Force powers (let alone perform them in front of anybody, even allies within the Rebellion) and use colorful euphemisms for what are obvious military activities and relationships.  
Frustrated by this dramatic teasing, Casan pushes her too far.  
“I wish I knew the general Dan and my dad served under. Must have been a Jedi of some renown,” he said without his usual restraint. Only upon looking at the death glare Rosie gave him did he realize his mistake.  
“Is that all you care about? For weeks you’ve been hounding me like an ISB agent and I’ve been kind enough to go along with it,” she rants, “thinking you actually gave a damn, but it’s never enough.”  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean-“  
“You want to hear about the Jedi? Fine. They were a threat to Emperor Palpatine’s ascendancy and he had them all killed to the last man, woman, and child at the end of the Clone Wars. That’s what your father accomplished.”  
“But you-“  
“As far as the galaxy’s concerned I am not. There are no Jedi left. Remember that well. If the Emperor ever learned of the existence of a survivor, it would paint the biggest target you’ve ever seen right on top of us. I’ve seen that happen more than once. I won’t see it again.”  
“Then why did you unveil yourself on Icnus?” He cringed at his idiocy; Foot, meet Mouth.  
“Because it was a choice between life or limb and I thought I sensed a life worth saving,” she said dismissively and stormed out of the room. Casan thought it best not to be there when she got back.  
After cooling off, Rosie returns to her quarters to find Casan gone. She locates him in the lower decks of Engineering, fiddling with something at a workbench.  
“Hi.” She startles Casan, and he suddenly and suspiciously starts attempting to hide what he was doing at the table.  
“Huh? Oh, uh, hello Rosie.”  
“I’m sorry for losing my temper back there.”  
“No, it’s my fault, I really should have known better. I was raised better than that. Even Connel told me not to pry.” He starts rubbing his right wrist with his left hand.  
“What have you got there?”  
“Nothing, I’ve got nothing! There’s nothing here.”  
“Come on, you can tell me.”  
“I wasn’t…”  
She looked him in the eyes. “Please, show me.”  
Unable to keep up the charade any longer, Casan sheepishly reaches for the button under the synthetic skin of his false hand, opening up the diagnostic panel for the cybernetic prosthesis. Etched on the cover latch was a crude approximation of Rosie’s diamond-shaped forehead markings.  
“This is what I was doing. Sergeant Yster said I could use his laser-pen. It was the best I could do on memory, and I’m not left-handed. I, uh, hope you’re not angry.”  
“It’s great, Casan,” she consoles.  
“Thanks.”  
The spat over, they return to quarters. Once inside, Casan tries his luck one last time.  
“Rosie, could you at least tell me one thing?”  
“If it will sate your lust for knowledge about my past, then yes.”  
“What’s your real name?”  
Not a question she was expecting. She thought the alias was as good as any other.  
Seeing the shocked look on her face, Casan immediately retracts it. “I’m sorry if that was too far, please don’t take it the wrong way, you don’t have to answer it, I just thought-“  
“Ahsoka. Ahsoka Tano. Those words never leave this room.”  
It’s a condition he can accept.

It had been a week since Casan had had his little spat with Rosie. No, not Rosie – Ahsoka. He smiled to himself at the fact that he was probably one of perhaps a tiny handful who knew her real name; it was quite the honor, yet his satisfaction was always tempered by the knowledge that so many others who knew her were long gone. Nevertheless, ever since the argument, the two had grown even closer; a natural and unavoidable consequence of co-ed habitation.  
It began as small public displays of affection. Little things that the crew would sometimes tease and mumble over, while they bashfully denied any attachment more than friendship. When “Rosie” was spotted giving a flirtatious wink to Casan, she’d shrug it off. When the two laughed at each other’s terrible jokes in the galley, Connel would groan. When they started walking down the Penitent Man’s operating corridors holding hands, it was difficult for the enlisted men to hold their tongues and refrain from shouting out “just kiss already!” They’d be seeing a lot more than that soon enough.  
Every so often Casan had walked in on Ahsoka exiting the shower and seeing more skin than he was meant to see. At first, she shrugged it off as military necessity, and his attempt to avert his gaze was seen as misplaced propriety. Occasionally, she tripped on Casan when he was performing maintenance on captured Imperial equipment, and would wind up accidentally grabbing his crotch or his rear. They’d blush and shake themselves off and pretend like nothing happened. At first. That was last year.  
Now, Casan likes to trip her up on purpose, visibly and obviously presenting himself for just such a convenient accident to justify them touching each other. Eventually Rosie started changing clothes without any regard for whoever was present, while he would sneak a peek as subtly as he could. Now, she does it intentionally, and he does not modestly turn his head away. Indeed, these strip shows she provides prove too much for either of them to bear.  
One night Casan is sitting on his bunk , when Rosie enters the quarters with a whoosh of the door, covered in sweat; must have been in the gym, he thinks. Suddenly she speaks up.  
“We’ve been in deep space too long without resupply, and the commander doesn’t want to start tasting the reclaimed water. Showers are halved. Orders.”  
“Oh,” he blurts, buying her line. Being gullible and innocent around her, he mulls over what that means in his head.  
“Means we’re going to have to share showers,” she says, careful not to reveal the slightest hint of her intentions. That gives him an idea.  
“Well if you’re getting in, I better come along, or I’m not gonna get another chance for days.”  
Now he’s getting it, she thinks. “Alright, but don’t get any ideas,” Rosie warns with all the teeth of a porg.  
They strip, as sterilely and forcibly platonically as possible, but that doesn’t keep their eyes from roving. As they step into the small stall, she notices something wrong: inappropriate modesty.  
“You going to take those off or wear them to bed?”  
“What? Oh, yeah,” Casan notices her hand pointing to his visibly tented underwear. It pops out comically, but she doesn’t laugh. Good sign, he thinks.  
They have to get very close in order to share the water. And the soap. As they try to help each other lather up, Casan notices women can get hard too, on the chest. Realizing what he’s doing, he brings his gaze back up to Ahsoka’s face, and notices her staring at his manhood. She looks back up and stares straight into his eyes; that is when all pretenses of the flagrant water-ration lie are dropped. The two lovers lock lips as they smash their bodies into each other. Tongues locked, Casan’s hands start grabbing a handful of Ahsoka’s orange chest-flesh, flicking the aureole between his fingers, and stroking her Togruta montrals while she wraps her arm around his waist and pinches his bottom, lightly at first, then full-handed slaps. She grabs his pole muscle and removes her face from his.  
Is he ready for this? she asks herself. “Are you ready for this?”  
Yes! he tells himself. “Yes!” he yells.  
He’s ready. She guides his pink rod to her hairless orange folds and for the first time, Casan is inside another woman. Funny, he thinks, I thought it would be Inya. She’s quickly forgotten as the two are lost in the moment, Casan from the overwhelming novelty of the sensations and Ahsoka from the comforting feeling of being that close to another person again. The physical pleasure came later; the eager little human lover made up for inexperience with time, as the 5 minute shower became 45 minutes. Too tired to grasp the import of their actions and unwilling to ruin the moment with awkward conversation, they dried off as quickly as possible and tumbled down to bed.  
The same bed.

He opened his eyes. Sweet dreams turned into bitter reality. He was lying face down, his head facing toward the wall. One of Ahsoka’s blue and white montrals was draped over his face, and an elbow was in his back. His right hand was nestled between her…did he? Yes he did, several times, and so did she. Was she awake? He was in dread of facing her, and dare not move. What did this mean? Were they still friends? Just friends? Or did this mean something more? An odd feeling spread throughout his gut and chest, a mix of elation and terror. Was that love? Did she feel the same about him? He couldn’t decide if he liked the idea or not, and wasn’t sure if he wanted answers to these questions. He just lay there deathly still with his eyes open, afraid to wake her up and face the music.  
“Are you going to put that hand to good use or not?”  
He nearly flew up into the air like a frightened loth-cat, sending the long since awoken Ahsoka into a small fit of giggling.  
“I’m sorry. Are you OK, Colan,” she asked, not bothering to cover her naked chest.  
“That’s what I was going to ask you. About last night…”  
“Yes?”  
“Ro- I mean Ahsoka, does this mean we-“  
“There is no ‘we’, Colan.”  
“Oh,” he said, deflated.  
She elaborated. “I didn’t mean it like that Col. I like you a lot.” She sighed. “It’s been a long time since I had someone that close to me, and it felt good to let you get close, but I don’t know if I’m willing to make a commitment. Maybe after the war there can be a ‘we’.”  
“I’m not sure if that’s what I wanted to hear, but I can live with it.”  
They were both lying to themselves.  
He broke the awkward silence. “So was last night just a one time thing?”  
“Not if you don’t want it to be.”  
That brightened his mood. He leaned in to kiss her, and their hands started to roam…

Commander Ruskert had had it up to here with rutting animals on his ship. It was bad enough when military personnel were screwing at all, but the alien agent and that bratty ex-imperial had the bad taste and ill-discretion to get caught. He’d have their hides if they weren’t conveniently off-duty, but all the other couples on Rebel ships kept their horizontal sparring confined to their quarters; not in the galley, not in the medbay, not in the engine room. It was a welcome relief when he got the chance to pawn them off on a couple of Derlin’s agents when the good major started asking around for people with experience disguised as Imperials. What a coincidence, he thought, the Penitent Man’s cargo bay was filled with stormtrooper armor and his crew spent half their time wearing it.

Planet Raxus, former capital of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, now an occupied Imperial Military Prefecture. A prime example of the efficacy of immediate, groveling capitulation. Sucked dry by tribute offered to the Empire to avoid punitive action, the system has nearly regressed to a barter economy, the only source of revenue being tourism. Pockets of wealth still exist across the planet, such as the capital city, now dominated by the Imperial Administration building; in reality, a palace built to edify Moff Ramada, sector governor.  
In a market square in a less fashionable district of town, a tourist couple sets down on the bench of an oxidized fountain. One, a female togruta wearing a summer gown and a visor tailored to her unique cranial physiology, the other an auburn-haired human in khakis and sunglasses.  
“We just got a call from mother, the presents are ready and the birthday boy is on his way,” Ahsoka said, pretending to browse a holonet hotspot.  
“Give those code-words a rest, will you, I’ve been listening to that garbage for a week. I’m waiting on a more important signal,” Casan replied. “Ah, there it is.” A skinny nautolan girl mingling with the bazaar’s crowd waves to the couple, points towards a vendor, then leaves. “I’ll be right back, dear,” he says, giving her a peck on the cheek, while she taps her feet nervously.  
He returns shortly carrying a small, featureless box.  
“What is that,” Ahsoka asks, “and how much did it cost?”  
“Spoken just like a wife,” Casan winks. “It’s a surprise. Derlin’s boys went to great lengths to get it shipped here. Please, just take good care of it. You’re in for a treat.”  
A bronze-skinned man hocking his wares in the street closes his stall, and heads towards a besalisk pizzeria, entering the restroom. Five minutes later, a zabrak couple necking against a building move across the plaza towards the besalisk pizzeria, entering the restroom. Casan waits a few seconds, then gets up, walks into the besalisk pizzeria, and enters the restroom.  
Moments later, four scout troopers – a full squad – emerge from the alleyway behind the besalisk pizzeria, one wearing signature black greaves. Just in time too; the target had shown up in the plaza precisely on schedule. An obese, sniveling Rodian, flanked by two human bodyguards, waddled through on his weekly route towards the ImpAdmin building, this time more nervously than usual. Tereen Vota, a notorious loan shark and extortionist, had been squeezing the people of Raxus harder than the Imperials ever bothered fort the last twenty years. This time they were going to squeeze back.  
Vota was the middle-man through which Moff Ramada received his bribes, but lately, a sharp decline in returns gave the governor the idea that Vota was cooking the books. He was fudging his numbers of course, but not to the extent that the moff’s reports showed, he had to clear things up with Ramada before he decreed an official audit. Little did he know that his organization was being bled dry by the inconspicuous little astromechs of the Rebel Alliance, working discreetly underfoot to dismantle Vota’s organization and add much needed funds to the Rebellion’s coffers.  
The multispecies hoi polloi swerved as the scout troopers swagger past. The familiar feeling of wearing scout armor infinitely boosted Casan's confidence, he felt like he could take on the emperor himself as he walked directly towards the fat, wretched Rodian – or at least that idiotic officer Snor. With a smile hidden beneath the emotionless visor of his helmet, he deliberately walked into the waddling alien, nearly knocking him off his feet.  
"Watch where you're walking, you alien slime," Casan exclaimed, displaying an excess of braggadocio. Ahsoka groaned at her place on the fountain; he was hamming it up way too much.  
With an agitated sputter, the Rodian returned "You-you can't talk to me that way, you imperial dog! Don't you know who I am?! I'm Tereen-" There was dull thud as Casan's gloved fist connected with the Rodian's belly, then a hiss as the air was knocked out of the alien's lungs.  
"I don't really care who you are. You're just the filth that got in my way. Get 'em, boys!" A rain of blows quickly felled Vota and his guards, but before they could ferry him away to Derlin’s waiting cargo shuttle, a patrol of the local stormtrooper military police arrived on the scene.  
"Alright, alright! That's enough! Break it up or I'll..." The trooper's threat got caught in his throat when he saw the armor of the attackers, and the rank-code marking the lead scout’s chestplate. "Uh...Captain! Sir! What's going on? Do you need assistance or…" the stormtrooper said in deference, not even bothering to verify the scout captain’s scandocs.  
Startled by this turn of events, Ahsoka stood up. A crowd was gathering around them. Fortunately, Casan had a backup plan for just this scenario. With any luck, they wouldn’t have to move to Plan C: shoot their way to the shuttle and run away with their tails between their legs.  
Casan gestured to the bloodied Rodian. "This bloated insect attacked me when I discovered that he'd been shorting the governor's bri-…taxes."  
One of the scout captain’s fellows steps forward to hand the stormtrooper sergeant a datapad detailing all the illicit activities of Vota’s organization, including the embezzlement he actually did commit. Even if the numbers didn’t match, any evidence of shortchanging the moff would be sure to incur his wrath, especially when it was collected by an “official” astromech droid employed by the state. The stormtrooper took the fabricated datapad and gave it a once over. Vota, meanwhile, struggled to get to his feet.  
"You lie! I've done no such thing! I was just on my way to-" A hard kick by the sergeant sent him sprawling again.  
"Stow it creep, you're coming with us. Thank you for your help, Captain. Did you need anything else?"  
Casan shook his head. "Nothing, sergeant. I have other business to attend to if you'll excuse me." The stormtrooper saluted crisply then began to bark orders to his subordinates to drag the pleading Rodian away.  
With simultaneous sighs of relief, all the field agents walked as briskly and discreetly as they could to Derlin’s stolen Zeta-class. Nobody noticed when the biker scouts boarding the unobtrusive cargo ship were followed by plainclothes civilians, and none could have guessed it was filled with several metric tons of loot lifted from Vota’s crooked stores.  
The governor would recoup is bribes by seizing the remains of Vota’s criminal assets; he was disinterested in pressing the citizenry any further. He could live in luxury while they chafed under the standard taxes. As far as the Raxians were concerned however, without Vota around to skin them, that amounted to a major tax cut. Seeing his gibbeted body hung in front of the ImpAdmin building was pretty nice, too. Who knows, it might even become a new tourist attraction.  
Back in their quarters aboard the Penitent Man, it was Ahsoka’s turn to ask questions.  
“Why did you risk the whole operation like that Casan? Do you have any idea how worried I was? What’s in that box anyway?”  
“Open it and see for yourself,” he said with a sense of self-satisfaction.  
She tore open the packaging to reveal a small durasteel sculpture – a finely detailed laser-carved model of a Nebulon-B frigate in stock livery, about ten inches long, with a tiny internal repulsorlift to keep it floating above its plaque.  
“You won’t believe how tough it was to find one of those old kits, most companies only make star destroyers anymore. It’ll take me a while to paint it in the Penitent Man’s colors, but I thought you’d like it…” he begins rambling bashfully.  
“Oh, Case…”  
He continues rambling, misinterpreting her tone. “I know I shouldn’t have jeopardized the mission like that but it-“  
“It’s adorable,” she cuts him off.  
“I’m glad you like it,” he sarcastically sighs at the distinctly unmanly description she gave to the thoughtful gift.  
Trying to get over her brief anger, a naughty idea appears in Ahsoka’s mind.  
“Listen, I think you deserve a little gift too,” she coos seductively.  
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” he misinterprets again, “I don’t need any – OH you mean THAT kind of gift,” finally getting the gist when he sees the look in her eyes and feels her hands untying his belt.  
“I assure you,” Ahsoka confides with a grin to Casan as he eagerly peels off his shirt, “this one will be a lot more fun to mount.”

Weeks after the mission on Raxus, the crew aboard the Penitent Man prepares to re-unite with the rest of the Alliance fleet for repairs, rearmament, and more importantly, a series of transfers for a number of her personnel. Almost the entire complement of eight-hundred men, with the exception of a purely combat oriented skeleton crew, were being shuffled off-board in order to fully-staff the best kept secret of Alliance command – Mon Calamari cruisers.  
The aquatic Mon Calamari have been exploring the galaxy with their colossal city-ships for eons, since before they ever encountered the Republic, treating the vast beauty of space with the same spirit of adventure as they journeyed their seas. Usually gregarious and sociable members of the galactic order, that all changed with the Clone Wars, when treacherous Quarren neighbors invited the Separatists to invade their homeworld and subjugate their people. With the aid of the Jedi and the clones of the Grand Army of the Republic, as well as diplomatic negotiations with friendly Quarren to disavow all connections to the CIS and fight to remove them, their homeworld was restored.  
But this left a sense of deep paranoia within the freedom-loving Mon Cals. It takes a long, long time to officially catalogue the stars for distribution to galactic cartographers, and when oppression reared its ugly head again in the form of the Empire, the prepared Calamari launched their very skyscrapers from beneath the surface of their oceans and vanished into deep space. At the unfrequented edge of the galaxy beyond the Outer Rim, or cleverly hidden between hyperspace lanes, lied the safe refuges of the Mon Calamari, countless planets unknown to the Empire, now housing all the billions of fishlike Mon Cals or cephalopod Quarren, both those that seek to live free from the war, and those that seek to take the fight to the Emperor.  
Two years after he had joined the Rebellion, Casan gazed at the void of wild space. He could not help but be excited. The fringes of civilization; the dark spaces of the map, the places that primitive cultures would fill with drawings of monsters and stories of ghosts hungry for the souls of those who ventured into the black. A paradisical planet hung like a marble halfway across the system. Perhaps that was the fabled Telaris.  
Here the mightiest warships of the Alliance fleet sat motionless against the fantastic background of nebulae and distant stars, while countless smaller rebel ships picketed the dockyards for defense. A dozen Mon Calamari cruisers of varying configuration, some of the last of their type to or be outfitted for combat anew or finish nursing wounds from previous skirmishes. Each ship home to thousands of crew and soldiers, and the pilots for the fighter squadrons they carried. One of these ships, he knew, was to be his new home.  
As if on cue, the engines of a newly war-converted MC75 roared to life, its shark-like bulk sweeping past the Penitant Man, and, meeting with a pair of flanking Corellian corvettes prepped for its departure, shot into hyperspace.  
“That was the Pelagy. Beautiful, isn’t it,” Ahsoka said next to him.  
A dumbfounded “yeah,” was the only reply he could muster.  
“There’s ours,” she said, pointing to an oblong shape in the center of the fleet.  
The Penitent Man slipped beside Home One, the flagship of Admiral Ackbar, to start ferrying off its complement. Casan was a bit sad to leave.  
“Great, where am I gonna find a model of this thing,” he complained half in jest, referring to the uniquely organic lines of the Home One.  
“Maybe they have a gift shop,” Ahsoka said without a hint of irony.  
“That’s not funny,” he started.  
“I’m serious, it used to be a cruise liner after all. They’ve probably got it right next to the food court and arcade.”  
Casan choked on his laugh.  
Deck 14, Sector 5, Suite 99. Their berth was first-class, with a window to the stars – albeit with a retracting metal plate to slide over it in battle. They would have some time to themselves to get used to their new surroundings – time they would spend together, alone, with doors locked and lights turned low – before they would be sent off on their mission to procure materials to get Home One battle ready again.  
She had been wounded in battle, burning out most of her turbolaser batteries fending off Imperial cruisers, and frying the heavy deflector shield matrix circuitry by wading directly into the broadsides of a star destroyer in a genius maneuver by Ackbar to protect a fleeing armada. Saved dozens of ships and sent the destroyer limping back to Fondor missing a quarter of its hull. It was crucial to acquire replacement circuits and turbolaser cooling sleeves in order to press Home One back into service as soon as possible.  
Acquiring such components would not be easy however. It’s not like going to the hardware store to pick up a hydrospanner; equipment of this sort is only used for one purpose, and that is war. The Empire is not exactly about to let anybody get away with acquiring military materiel or combat munitions. Even Casan in his scout armor would have trouble fooling an Imperial factory manager to let him get away with lifting a heavy-duty shipboard shield generator. Consequently, they must attempt more scurrilous methods.

In the nominally Imperial systems of Hutt Space reside countless smugglers, thieves’ dens, pirate hideouts, illicit factories, and war profiteers. Lip service is paid to the Emperor’s writ, as long as the criminal element doesn’t defy the Empire and pays their dues. In these lawless worlds anything and everything can be bought and sold, even sentient beings. It is here Casan must turn to get his hands on the capital ship parts.  
For weeks they scour underworld traders and black market peddlers, and go through hidden channels trying to contact freighter captains who don’t ask questions, until finally they receive a coded signal identified only as “Kantreve.” The encrypted message delineates the date, location, and a precise set of protocols to be followed. If they are not present at the coordinates on time and unarmed, they will lose their one chance to do business.  
“I’ve got a really bad feeling about this one,” Casan says, suspecting a trap of some sort. “What if it’s a trap of some kind? What if this is actually Imperial bait?”  
“You worry too much kid,” Connel replies. “They’re just petty crooks.”  
“Petty crooks hocking ship-to-ship weapons?”  
“I’ve made friends with a lot worse,” Ahsoka adds. “Besides, we don’t have a choice. The Alliance needs working capital ships. If we run into any trouble our pilots can hyperspace out of there before they even know what’s happened.”  
“The whole setup makes me uneasy – I used to disintegrate people like these.”  
“Well fortunately there won’t be any of that. Their scanners will detect any energy weapons,” she continues.  
“Even that…special item of yours, Rosie?” Casan inquires.  
“Yes, even that particular means of persuasion,” she dodges.  
“Would you calm down, son? We’re just gonna be hagglin’.”  
“Hmm. Those scanners wouldn’t detect projectile weapons would they?”  
“No, I don’t see any reason why they’d take such a precaution,” she says. “Why do you ask?”  
“Say, what are you gettin’ at kid?”  
“I want the team to get acquainted with slugthrowers before we embark.”  
On the appointed date, at the given location, a Hammerhead corvette carrying the rebels exits hyperspace. The contact, this “Kantreve,” was there already. Casan starts for a moment at the ship’s visage – the gargantuan pyramidal shape of an Imperial Class 4 container transport with a layered block of standardized cargo containers trailing behind it.  
His nerves calm down when he gets a closer look, seeing significant exterior modifications and decidedly non-regulation paint application. The heavy gun ports swiveled towards the newcomers in a silent warning: don't try anything funny, we're watching you. Somehow, it held a palpable aura of...filth. He felt like he needed a shower just looking at the hulk. Casan looked at his companions who all seemed to share his pensiveness.  
"It just doesn't feel right, dealing with scum like him."  
Connel chuckled. "What, as opposed to dealing with scum like us?"  
"It's not the same and you know it. How many good, honest people could this guy have swindled over the years? And I bet all those guns aren't just for show."  
Ahsoka sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard, but we don't have the luxury of picking and choosing who we deal with now. Maybe once the war is over we can bring law and order to these systems but for now, we just have to grin and bear it."  
“I hope you’re right, Rosie.”  
Their Hammerhead corvette docks with a colossal cargo tug. Two human mercs are waiting just beyond the airlock to escort the six men and women. They pay no attention to the away team’s heavy overcoats, trusting the airlock’s scanner to notice a weapon. Casan passes along the deck’s passageways, nervously turning into another checkpoint with an obvious energy detector – again, no reaction. He suppresses a sigh of relief.  
They take a turbolift down several decks to enter a large, ornate audience chamber, far more eloquently gilt and decorated than the external grime of the ship’s hull would suggest.  
“Ah, so here’s the desperate delegation of the Rebellion come to treat with me,” a voice echoes from an alcove on the other side of the room.  
None of their communication ever indicated affiliation with the Rebel Alliance.  
A hidden lift raises a dais out of the alcove, seating a giant, heavily ornamented Dug in a cushioned chair. Not giant as in fat; the arm-walking species averaged out at barely a meter high, and when this musclebound mafioso stood up from his seat, he had to have been nearly five feet.  
“Who said anything about being rebels,” Ahsoka coolly tried to dismiss.  
“What do you take me for, a fool? The only people in the galaxy desperate – or gullible – enough to respond to that unsolicited, unsecure transmission for contraband of that scale prohibited by the Empire would have to be a rebel. And here you are. The question now is what am I going to do with you lot? Sure, the Empire might pay handsomely for Rebel prisoners of war…but then again, they might not pay at all. I’d wager there’s more profit in conditioning you for slavery, you’re a decent bunch of specimens. Decisions, decisions…”  
“EXCUSE ME!?” Connel frantically exclaims.  
“I can be a kind master. Surrender peacefully, work hard, and I’ll make sure you’re not sold to the Empire,” the dug says heedlessly.  
“I don't want to say 'I told you so,' but I told you so,” Casan groans.  
The Dug’s hired guns move in to bind the shocked rebels. Casan’s cautious paranoia pays off however.  
Casan howls, “LEG IT!”  
At the high sign, the team opens fire with pistols hidden in their thick jackets, and he pulls a scattergun out of his overcloak making short, bloody work of the guards, sending them scrambling for cover. The rebels make their way to the exit, firing blindly behind them as they enter the lift.  
“Seize them, you fools!” yells the furious and frightened Dug kingpin as he escapes on his lift to a lower level. Few of the mercenary goons are able to muster up the courage to run after targets that are still armed.  
In the cramped corridors of the ship the fleeing rebels make use of their slug guns with brutal efficiency as they make a hasty retreat back towards their docked ship. Casan and Ahsoka bring up the rear, but as they approach their escape the hallway’s bulkheads begin closing behind them; it becomes apparent they won’t make it to the airlock.  
With a defiant last effort, Casan uses the extra force granted by his mechanical hand to push Ahsoka through the last threshold into Connel’s grasp just as the blast door crashes down and crushes it, leaving a sparking mangled mess of metal and wires peeking out from the horizontal seam at its center.  
“Casan!”  
The mechanical fingers twitch as if to bid her to escape.  
Connel yells, “come on Rosie, we have to leave now!”  
“I won’t leave him,” she screams, reaching out with her hands to call upon all her power to open the bulkhead.  
“What are you doing? The airlock is depressurizing, we have no choice!”  
Connel latches on to her, dragging her back just in the threshold of the Hammerhead as it detaches from the umbilical with a hiss.  
“No!” she shouts in anguish, watching through the viewport as the treacherous cargo hauler jumps to hyperspace, its destination unknown. Only at the moment of loss does she realize she really did love him, and now she may never be able to tell him.  
Aboard the pirate freighter, the blast doors begin to reopen in the same order they shut, with the exception of the one keeping Casan’s cybernetic arm trapped in place. They must know where he is. He reaches for his slug pistol with his left hand; it is not as proficient at marksmanship. A shistavanen thug turns the corner and starts hurtling towards him, howling like an animal. He barely manages to shoot it down without his dominant hand, even in the cramped corridors of the ship.  
This attracts the attention of more malefactors. As they turn the corner, he reflects with a final despair at the poetry of his situation. Knowing he has no place to go and he’d just prolong the inevitable, he musters up one last thought of Ahsoka; that painful but happy meeting in dire straits just like this. He raises the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.  
*Click*  
Nothing.  
“Brave, but foolish.” The Dug appears with his retinue. “Your resistance has cost me dearly. Now you will pay me back in flesh.”  
The last thing he sees is concentric blue circles from the nearest guard’s blaster.


	3. Woman

Above the Imperial occupied world of Dressel, disaster strikes. The Alliance Offensive into the Mid Rim catches the ISD Auspicious by surprise during pacification operations against Dressellian pirates and partisans, and the convoy of transfer shuttles carrying men and material back and forth between the surface and the star destroyer make easy targets for Rebel ships. Though the Alliance is ultimately repulsed, the casualties are enormous. Scout Captain Shon was on board and could do nothing but watch as snubfighters shredded the Sentinel carrying Lieutenants Colchis and Marin and twenty more imperial personnel. Salvage reports indicated four survivors – remarkable fortune for a ship explosion in space. Colchis was not among them, his body returned to the stellar matter from whence it came. Inya, poor Inya, was alive. Shon raced to the infirmary, but when he saw the cybernetic reconstruction needed to keep what remained of her body alive, he wept. Little did they know Casan was just a few short lightyears away, alive, but just as changed.

He realized he was awake when he felt the horrible aching exhaustion of stunblast recovery sweep over him. All Casan wanted to do was go back to his dreamless sleep and forget the strange and unpleasant pressure that he felt spread across his body. Fortunately he was lying on something soft, and he seemed to be covered in something soft too, even on his face, but not everywhere on his body – a twisted sheet? – for he senses a cool, steady breeze wafted over exposed skin, clearly artificial. His thoughts drifted to Ahsoka, and the giant dug, and…. He knew he had to get up.  
He gingerly opened his eyes to see…nothing. Just a dim light through…hair? How long could he have been out for his bangs to have grown that long? He felt his body shift awkwardly – it feels so unrecognizably heavy – as he raised his right hand to swipe the auburn locks out of his eyes. Wait a minute, wasn’t that the robotic limb just recently smashed to pieces by a bulkhead? He saw his cybernetic limb and noticed how delicate it looked. It was as if he had totally lost the tone and callus he had gained from years of military service, but that didn’t make any sense considering how heavy he felt. He didn’t give it too much thought, thinking it was just his tired eyes playing tricks on his tired body and mind. What was important was figuring out where he was and how to get out.  
Casan strenuously turned his neck to look around and get a sense of his surroundings. He was supine in a long, rectangular duracrete cell with light fixtures above. Oddly it was covered in lavish curtains, draperies, and tapestries, as if to hide the fact that it must be a prison. At the corners of his peripheral vision he saw that he was lying on a sea of plush pillows, and he struggled to make out electronic panels along the bare spots of the wall.  
With a burst of energy he lifted himself up to a sitting position, and gasped in horror when he saw – and felt – the price of his captivity. A canyon of flesh stared back at him, as he gazed into the cleavage of a pendulous bosom, but from the wrong side; it was his own. Clothed in a diaphanous pyjama that left little to the imagination, Casan saw that he had woken up a she.  
Reflexively, he grasped the breasts to confirm their reality, and shrieked when he felt the unnatural tactile response. This shock was enough to bring him to his feet, and his hands immediately shot to his groin to confirm – yes, thank heaven, everything he remembered was still in its proper place – but this, this couldn’t be real, he had to get out of here. He darted to the chamber door, ready to pounce on it with his fists, but to his surprise it slid open automatically as he leapt, and he stumbled onto the floor beyond the threshold.  
Have to get up, he said to himself as he regained his footing, thoughts racing, have to get out of here, have to find Ahsoka, have to undo this…. He ran aimlessly, through a mixed maze of natural stonework and durasteel corridors, struggling to control the hanging, jiggling flesh that tugged painfully on his chest with every pace. Totally flummoxed by the ship-like surroundings, Casan attempted to open doors randomly – some locked, some dead-ends to empty bedrooms, lobbies, refreshers.  
As he began to get a feeling for the layout of…wherever or whatever it was he was on, he suddenly chanced upon a room with people in it. An enormous open atrium filled with steam from baths, and further beyond a large, green garden, hundreds of meters across, with an artificial lake in the center. As his eyes struggled to resolve through the steam, the figures became apparent: a dozen or more beautiful, scantily clad women from a variety of species, craning their heads towards the familiarly-garbed intruder. At least, he thought they were women – one blue Pantoran revealed in “her” state of undress that “she” was similarly equipped to Casan.  
Half-disgusted, half-panicked, he hurriedly fled the room back the way he entered without any idea or care for what he was doing or where he was going, just a desperate desire to escape this madhouse. He only makes it a few yards before his frantic, directionless sprint turns a corner taking him to a wide transparisteel window, with a vista staring straight into a deep space. Far below, he sees a sprawling urban complex spread across numerous asteroids anchored together. Hundreds of feet above, he sees a rocky outcropping stretching into the vacuum. Beyond, countless asteroids and flitting ships displayed against the pinpricks of the galactic starscape. And in the glint of the window he sees his reflection….  
His thin silk clothing is sparse and generally shows more skin than it covers, only fully opaque at his genitals and aureolae. A few precious metallic bangles accentuated his extremities. Beyond the obvious feminine accoutrements, his shape can only be described as hourglass, with wide hips and a pert bottom, utterly beyond the furthest ribald banter shared with Inya, all those years ago. His shoulders remain broad, but what little muscular definition he has is wasted, and fat redistributed in the manner most appealing to that of men and doubly lecherous women. His pectorals could never be mistaken for those of a man, protruding like the gravity wells of an Interdictor cruiser, and experiencing the effects of gravity themselves. And his face….  
A face like the most refined and aquiline of galactic supermodels, the kind that graced the holomedia industry; and yet, behind the auburn hair that extended past his shoulders, behind the long eyelashes, the plump rouged lips, the thin nose, he spies a hint of his likeness. The red hair. The green eyes. The strong jaw. He recognizes himself, but he does not see himself. Another face appears in the window’s reflection, this one vaguely familiar as well – the dug. He gives a brief shudder of fear then turns on his heels to face his captor with as much bravado as he can muster, but finds himself speechless. The dug does not.  
“Awake at last. May I be so forward as to introduce my latest acquisition to her new home? I am Galba Kantreve, proprietor of this facility, and you are very fortunate to be my property,” he said with faux aristocratic affability. He didn’t bother to ask for his guest’s name, because he didn’t care. Only so much forced politeness is extended to a slave. Casan saw right through his snide, sleazy, mendacity. This Kantreve counted himself among the vilest of galactic scum: the trafficker in sentient beings.  
“Wh-what have you done to me,” he meekly stuttered, the soft voice as unfamiliar to him as the rest of his new body.  
“Oh, merely a few hundred thousand credits worth of biomedical procedures to render your body more suitable for the purposes I require. I spare no expense. Female, or at least feminine, slaves are always more valuable, for reasons even a moral crusader like you rebels can understand. What’s more important is what I intend to do with you.  
You see my dear, your little stunt at our last rendezvous cost me a great deal, and I want a return on my investment. You are going to make me a lot of money. Oh don’t look so glum, you don’t have to worry about being your body being passed around to every lonely two-bit pirate on shore leave – unless you misbehave. I run a high-class entertainment establishment, and you are going to be part of the ‘show.’  
But that comes later, for now you need to be properly trained, and as a kind and thoughtful businessman, I know the best way to attract a Cancell Fly is with honey. My new ‘girls’ get studded out to my wife. “ The puzzled and disgusted look Casan gave led the dug to shift the direction of his sinister monologue.  
“Don’t mistake me for some petty cuckold . We suffer a mutual long-term defect in our respective species’ compatibility. A dug loses his virility with age; her race does not, and does not know the meaning of the word chastity. It would be remiss for a man of my stature to be so publicly disgraced by letting a man into his wife’s bedchamber. Nobody cares what a woman does with her slave-girls, regardless of the appendage between their legs. She’ll train you in the tantalizing exotic arts that are the renown of my station. In a few months you’ll join her previous ‘stallions’ and she’ll move on to the next ‘girl’. She gets her pleasure, and I get my moneymakers.”  
The odious smile on the Kantreve’s snout fades. “But do not test my patience, human,” he says with a snarl, “or I’ll sell you to a Hutt before you can say ‘no means no.’ “  
Completely stunned, the tall arm-walking racketeer guided Casan back to the diwan he just fled to introduce him to the rest of the “girls” – of both genders.

“We have to go back for him!”  
“Not a chance, Rosie, we don’t have the manpower, we don’t have the materiel, we don’t have the time,” Bren Derlin retorted. “We don’t even know where he is.”  
“But-“  
“There is no ‘but’ commander. We’re stretched thin enough as it is, and with the Mid Rim Offensive faltering, we’re ready to evacuate Crait and Alliance High Command is relocating to some ice planet in the middle of nowhere.” Derlin breathed an understanding but exasperated sigh, and whispered, “I know how you feel about him, but you don’t even know that he’s alive. We can’t afford to commit resources to something like this. You know it, I know it.”  
“I do,” Ahsoka responded mischievously.  
“And don’t even think about doing anything rash and going over my head with this. We both know how dangerous it is for you of all people to get involved. You cannot risk getting exposing yourself to someone who knows who you really are, friend or foe.”  
“I understand,” she said through gritted teeth to the moustachioed major. As he walked away, tears welled up in her eyes, and she was glad there was no one around to see.

 

An interstellar speakeasy. That’s what Kantreve’s station was, a colossal haven for high-stakes gambling, luxurious vice, and every kind of contraband imaginable, hidden deep in officially uncharted Hutt Space. The secret of its location was closely guarded by the Hutts, as their dug liaison was the emergency backup of the galactic slave trade in case the Empire ever cracked down, or in the even more unlikely and unprofitable event the idealistic Rebels ever brought them down.  
“He doesn’t actually run the whole station, there’s a host of private enterprises of ill-repute, but his is the most prestigious and important,” one of Casan’s new twi’lek friends – or rather, fellow captives – informs him.  
He hasn’t yet figured out whether it was Lurla or her twin brother Lurlin that was talking to him, as Kantreve’s body modifications had left them identical to each other. They were prattling on about how working as dancers, deathstick purveyors, croupiers, and general shoulder-tarts at the main casino was a tolerable existence and remarkably spoiled for a slave, and that he shouldn’t try to disrupt it.  
“It’s not so bad,” Lurla says.  
“You get used to it,” Lurlin says.  
Their conversation was pleasant, but Casan wasn’t really paying attention. He was still plotting how to escape after a week in captivity and getting nowhere. There didn’t seem to be any means of egress that weren’t heavily guarded or otherwise impenetrable, but that just meant he had to think outside the box. Desperate times called for desperate measures and he had to get out of here and turn back to normal before he wound up getting bedded by Kantreve’s undoubtedly monstrous wife, whatever species she was. Which left him only one option….  
As if on cue, two burly bouncers barged into the harem and ordered Casan to follow. He knew where they were taking him, and he just had to wait for his chance to strike. He complied as they led him down a dimly lit passageway to a wing he hadn’t been before, far more extravagant yet foreboding than anything he’d seen yet in his brief and limited exposure to the facility. The alien thugs gently but firmly pushed him through, then secure the door behind him.  
He looks around to get a sense of his surroundings, but he already knows where he is: the mistress’ bedchamber. Opulence was its name; a circular suite a hundred feet across enclosing a crescent-shaped reflecting pool, at the center of which lied an artificial stonework island topped by a massive round mattress covered in sumptuous fabrics. The room was lit by flame torches along the walls and ankle high lamps along the edge of the pool. He strode across the bridge connecting the landing to the bed. He mulled over the plan in his mind, just biding his time until the right opportunity arose.  
He didn’t have to wait long. The portal to the room opened and the poorly-lit silhouette of the dug’s wife stood in the entrance. Even at that distance and in this light he knew what she was and it struck terror into Casan’s heart. Large ears, reflective eyes, glistening fangs, the fearsome feral aspect of the jackal of the stars: a Zygerrian. To the ignorant, such a svelte woman wearing nothing but a slinky long sheet masquerading as a dress might be considered attractive. To those who know the history of the ruthless Zygerrian Slave Empire, her visage inspires nothing but fearsome loathing, and that’s before Casan considered the stories Ahsoka told him.  
This explains Kantreve’s slaver kink he thought, steeling himself for what had to be done.  
She looked at her prey and purred, sending a chill down his spine. “O-o-oh, aren’t you pretty,” she growled in a husky yet deceptively seductive voice. “I am Pareeha, your mistress. Just lie back, relax, and let me train you in the art of pleasure.” She moved forward, attempting to strip the modest pyjama from his voluptuous frame. Now’s my chance he thought.  
“No,” was all he said, resisting her attempts to get him out of the meager clothing draped over him, “I won’t be defiled by the likes of you. I’m getting the hell off of this rock.” He tried to sound more threatening than he looked, but it wasn’t working.  
“Oh don’t be cheeky,” Pareeha cooed petulantly, not buying his aggression for an instant. “There’s no need to be coy with me, girl,” she said, struggling to contain the wriggling object of her desire.  
“I AM NOT A GIRL,” he yelled in as deep a voice he could muster, and backhanded the Zygerrian with enough force to send her sprawling.  
“You impudent little-,“ she seethed, wiping blood away from her lip, before tapping the comlink at the garter around her thigh. “-GUARDS!”  
He pushed past her, and sprinted towards the entrance, remembering to compress the bust against his chest with one arm so he wouldn’t stumble. A Nikto guard opened the door just in time to take an elbow to the face as Casan lunged forward and immediately policed a blaster from his unconscious body. He raised it to fire upon the incoming compatriot of the thug he just knocked down, and concentric blue rings streamed from the barrel. Damn, set to stun. He eyed the gun to make sure it had lethal capability, and flicked the selector switch to full power when he was reassured it did.  
He had to enact the next step of his escape plan quickly, before the alarm was sounded, and barreled off in the direction of his target as quickly as his altered body could take him: the dug slaver’s quarters. He retraced his steps carefully to his office and barged in to witness Kantreve fondling the ornate slug pistol Casan had smuggled in on his first meeting. Though his new body was no longer as robust as it once was, Casan still knew how to fight, and the element of surprise was his. The burly canine alien hardly had enough time to let out a “Huh” before Casan tackled him to the floor and put him in a chokehold.  
“Take me to a ship, now!” he barked, blaster to Kantreve’s head.  
The brawny dug just wheezed a laugh, “my, my, I think you broke my nose.”  
“I mean it! I’m getting out of here or your brains will decorate the wall,” he said, finger itching closer to the finger as armed guards cautiously burst into the room.  
“Spirited, but you lack the will.” The dug surreptitiously thumbed a button on his belt buckle, and Casan jerked backwards as an electroshock delivered by a bracelet on his ankle floored him. The guards immediately moved in to restrain Casan and brush off Kantreve.  
Shaking off the effects of the shock as best he could, he lashed out at his captors while they bound him in irons. “You demented sickos will regret this! The Alliance will mount a rescue, and you’ll all be-“  
“Those do-gooder idealists and your little orange girlfriend are never going to find this station! I’ve covered my tracks far too well to be threatened by a motley band of children playing war! Now enough of these pathetic stunts, I won’t suffer an outburst like this again, mark my words. Now get her out of here,” he said to his goons.  
“She’ll come back for me, you’ll s- mmph,” his hysterical plea was abruptly silenced as an electronic muzzle was clamped over his jaw. He continued to grunt ineffectually as he was dragged unceremoniously back to Pareeha’s chamber, and safely secured to the lovebed. She enters the room again, looking twice as vicious and predatory as the last time now that her pride has been wounded.  
“Now, where were we,” she snarls ferociously, licking her bloody lip sensuously.  
“MMM! MMPH!” the feminized Casan groans as he attempts to resist her approach, but it is in vain; bound spread-eagled as he is, she is able to use him as she sees fit. He tries wriggling away from her touch but there’s nowhere to move as she pulls down his lower pyjama, exposing the incongruous manhood beneath the womanly undergarment.  
“O-o-oh,” Pareeha purrs lustfully, fondling his package from stem to stern. He tries thinking of the most unerotic thoughts possible to curtail his increasing arousal but there is nothing he, or any man, could do to thwart the delicate but deft prowess of her lightly furred hands; the encroaching warm pressure of her modestly-endowed chest as she lies upon him, nuzzling his navel; or the irresistible passion of her wending tongue.  
“What have we here,” she teases, slapping the wet, hardening length against her own face. Casan burns with rage at her wanton depravity, silently praying to his maker behind his horrific gag that he would wake up from this nightmare before it progressed any further. She continues licking up and down his pole but never takes it in to her mouth. She’s teasing him, testing him, prepping him. His delusions of staying chaste for Ahsoka are at an end.  
Pareeha leaps up on top of him, pinning him down under her lithe, statuesque body, and violently grabs his throbbing member, guiding it to her welcoming love canal, dripping with need. He thrashes and shakes his head in fruitless denial of the inevitable, but it does nothing to stop her from dropping down and impaling herself on him with a girlish squeal from them both; in an instant he is inside the Zygerrian female, tortured by the burning pleasure and the inescapable shame of his violation.  
She bucks like a wild animal, head jerking back and forth in jaw-dropping rapture, never bothering to look him in the eye. Her wild ministrations nearly send her off balance, and she rips open Casan’s flimsy top to grab hold of each of his breasts in her clawed hands, forcing him to squeak out another “mmph,” lost in the cacophony of her feral howls of pleasure. Between the tight alien womanhood stimulating his pride and the foreign sensations from the kneading of his jiggling new feminine shame, it was only a matter of time before he would release. The inevitable came, and so did he, releasing with the most forceful climax of his life deep inside her welcoming womb.  
He panted behind the muzzle, the chemical and physical high of mating exhausting him – but she was not finished. She would continue until he slaked her lust. Their screams echoed into the night.

Casan wakes in the early morning in his own chambers, completely nude. His hair was tousled, his makeup smeared, his bridle thankfully absent. Pareeha had toyed with him to her satisfaction through the entire night, dragging him all the way back to his quarters under an armed escort, mating even as they walked and crawled along the corridors. She finally finished in his room, and there were stained pillows and sheets to prove it. She had removed the gag, along with the remnants of his tattered clothing, and walked bow-legged back to her chamber.  
He hurt all over, worse than when he first arrived at Kantreve’s station because now he knew the exact cause of his ache. Not just from the sexual over-exertion but the violence of it; he was red and bruised from her slaps and bites. And there was a deeper ache that gnawed at his soul. He thought of Ahsoka back on Home One, and sobbed.

Casan has grown accustomed to the routine. With the help of the slave girls – and slave “girls” – he is quickly trained in the art of looking sexy to wealthy patrons and gamblers while hocking illicit substances to them, or else dancing on a table with little else but his manhood concealed. Not that the patrons cared what was in their pants, this wasn’t a brothel; those on the other side of the station. They were just there to look good and attract the money of criminals. Lucky him, he thought sarcastically to himself.  
That was another problem. Casan had to make an effort to keep referring to himself as a he in the face of his current cross-gendered conundrum, because nobody else would, certainly not the proprietor or his nymphomaniac spouse that took Casan as a concubine every few days. His fellow slaves tried to be kind, but after so long in their situation, they often forgot their original pronouns themselves, let alone Casan’s. To him that mental torture was far worse than the restraints he was put into when he defied such efforts to break his spirit. Hostility incited correction; to openly defy a master’s writ was to invite shackles and gag, but those temporary tribulations could be ignored as long as he kept his wits about him and maintained his unshakeable belief that Ahsoka would come back for him. She would come back, he kept telling himself. She has to.  
Weeks turn into months.  
The remnants of Bane Squad are folded into regular Scout Corps. Captain Shon and Lieutenant Marin are shuffled through numerous rote patrols before finally getting due recognition for their service: assignment to a little forest moon to guard some bunker for an important secret weapons project.  
The defeat at Hoth as a major setback for the Alliance, and they are forced to lick their wounds and bolster their numbers. The toil of the Mon Calamari is paying off however, as new cruisers are constantly being added to the ranks of the Rebel fleet. Ahsoka realizes the importance of freeing up Home One. She never stops thinking of Casan. She shares the same anguish of parting and knows her only shot at getting him back relies on approaching the ship’s commander at the right moment, with the right plan. Until then, she, and Rett, and Connel, and Derlin, bide their time, and keep an eye out for any leads Rebel intelligence or their contacts can obtain.

After a rowdy night’s bout of forced lovemaking, the most recent in an unbroken line of unwanted climaxes, Casan scrambles for the smallest bit of dignity in the respite of Pareeha’s afterglow. Piecing his metal bikini back together around his hips and bust, he proceeds to wrap one of the love-chamber’s clean bed-sheets around him. He complies more often than not these days, eager to get it over with while trying to project his mind some place, any place, else.  
He can’t bear the thought of being coerced into betraying Ahsoka’s love, and wonders how she’ll take it if – when, always think when – she comes for him. All he has left of her is the tiny amateur art on the inner panel of his cybernetic. He cannot deny how good the coupling feels, and for this he hates himself all the more. He fumes with loathing towards his female captor, despising her more than the vicious thug she’s married to; familiarity breeds contempt, they say.  
When Pareeha doesn’t just walk out without a word, or send him off back to his cell, she’ll frequently blab about inane personal foibles and frustrate the limits of his tolerance with petty small-talk, in total ignorance of Casan’s condition and feelings about her. This usually flares him up but given her personal interest in her slave, she tends to shorten the punishments; after all it’s much fun for her when her concubine’s hands are free and mouth accessible. This time, his insatiable partner breaks routine and stays to comment on his glowering aspect.  
"Oh do cheer up, dearie. I must be the best lover on this rock. You should be grateful to have lain with a beauty such as I," she proudly proclaims without the slightest hint of self-awareness.  
“Grateful,” he muses absentmindedly. “Grateful!” he yells in anger. His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “why would I be thankful for what you have done?”  
"And what have I done other than take my slave for my pleasure and given her the same? It is a very generous arrangement for the lower class."  
“You don’t get it. There is no ‘her’, damn it! I’m a man in spite of whatever superficial modifications you’ve done to my body. You cannot rape the truth away.”  
"Wh...what?" She was puzzled and frankly taken aback by the utterance of that word.  
"Rape,” he blurted in her face. “It's bad enough having the shape of my body violated to suit your perverted customs, bad enough being parted from a loved one, but what you've done to me does nothing but reaffirm what slavery is, and slavers are – savage, vicious, plundering monsters that foist their depredations upon the defenseless of the galaxy because they’re so weak and pathetic they get annihilated by the first peasant that fights back. You are the scum of the galaxy, no, worse than scum, you don’t even rank at the same level of Tusken Raiders. If I was still with the empire, I’d have shot you on sight.”  
Upon reflection, not the best choice of words. Not least because of the threat to a master, which would probably earn a humiliating punishment, but he’s in for it anyway now, so why stop. What really cut Casan was that he realized he had just described the Empire of which he was lately a patriotic citizen.  
“So know this,” he directed his rant back towards Pareeha. “If…when I get back to the rebellion, I’m going to see to it you receive the just rewards of your deeds." His glare chills her to the bone. “Now if you please mistress, I want to get some sleep,” he says sarcastically as he storms off with her sheet draped around his shoulders, covering his indecency. He is stopped by the secured blast door, and pounds on it in vain, unwilling to look back at her. Dumbfounded, she keys the unlock code. For once, he walks out on her.

The slave’s remark wounded her deeply, and she begins to do something she has rarely ever done before – think. Her property behaved imperiously, as if it believed itself important; strange behavior for a slave, all she had ever known was compliant sheep that did her bidding without a second thought, or else were punished once and cowed thereafter. Could Galba have made a mistake? Enslaved a high-born Imperial? That would be disastrous politically, and a failure of her culture’s sense of “justice.” She would have to dwell on this further.  
Pareeha never really gave her profession much thought, certainly never thought of slaves as anything but property; the idea of associating what she’s done with rape is almost alien, and moreover, insulting to her. Not insulting in the same way that would have gotten Casan punished, it was a crack in her worldview. In her culture, rape was something an inferior did to a superior or between equals, and was often equated with theft, itself a capital offence on the property- and class-obsessed Zygerria. If her slave believed itself an equal perhaps she could dispel those notions or uncover its pedigree if she got down to his level. First, she would have to learn what her property called itself.  
“Why the sudden interest in my name? Want to take that from me as well,” Casan snidely replied to her blunt question, as he tried to wipe her bodily fluids from his thighs. The zygerrian's repeated usage may have dimmed his spirit, but it has not extinguished it.  
“I make it my business to know all my slaves’ identifications, as a good mistress should,” she lied, badly.  
4 months cooped up in this hellhole and now the ditzy wench wants to get to know me, what a load of…. ”Ok then, what are the twi’leks in your care called?”  
She paused awkwardly, groping for an answer she didn’t know. “R-“  
“Wrong. Lurla and Lurlin.”  
He called her bluff. She would have to try this more tactfully. Get down to his level. How did slaves speak again? They used a language she heard frequently but rarely understood, with strange words like….  
“I would like to know your name, please,” she said, struggling with the foreign word.  
If he gave her what she wanted maybe she’d get off his back. “Casan,” he said warily, unwilling to divulge his first name. “And,” trying to control his temper as he ventured a concession, “I’d appreciate it if mistress referred to me as a man, not a woman.”  
“Hold your tongue, boy, you go too far.” Boy. Small victories, he told himself. With a little luck he might goad her into turning her back long enough for him to get out of here and bring the fleet to blast this place to smithereens.

The Zygerrian female’s repeated attempts at trying to teach her slave some manners has backfired; she is now learning from him, as her world begins to involve around this slave that fought back. She grows interested in his interests, trying to spend as much time around him as she can. She continues to pry at him for knowledge about his life and customs in a manner not dissimilar and just as annoying as Casan once did to Ahsoka.  
Annoying in part because of her total disregard for personal space and consent. Pareeha will steal away to his quarters in the middle of the night and begins her small-talk by swallowing his manhood, sucking it to arousal and bobbing up and down to drain him of his stamina, permitting her interrogations to pierce past his emotional defenses. Inevitably however, the conversation she manages to start invariably returns to his togruta lover, and he retreats back into his shell, guarded by fury towards his captor, and a desire to be rid of her.  
She changes her strategy, no longer seeking to take from Casan what he might give voluntarily. She bribes him with incentives in order to gain his permission to have carnal relations. He considers it a twisted form of foreplay, but he is willing to take whatever concession for the slaves he can get; freedom to wear less revealing clothes off-duty, more lenient disciplinary measures, the right to be addressed by name.  
As Casan grows bolder, Pareeha grows more timid and introspective. He has shown her a horrible reflection of herself and it fills the self-conscious woman with fear and doubt. She is introduced to the awareness of her indulgent sins. Not her lust itself, but the lives it consumes. Her husband’s enterprise retains dozens of slaves, but she knows hundreds more have been trafficked through the station. His words on the inalienable rights of sentient beings weigh heavily on her soul as she gives thought to another worldview than her own, and her loyalty to her beliefs was about to be tested.  
Casan’s boldness has gone too far. The privileges he has obtained at Pareeha’s behest have dulled his self-control. He loses his composure with an underworld guest at the casino after being pinched on the teat. The patron was in the wrong of course – groping the attendants was against house policy – but that would make no difference to Kantreve after the feminized slave pummels the offender and has to be subdued as a brawl breaks out.  
“You have tried my patience for the last time,” the towering dug fumes savagely at the defiant slave in his office, Pareeha standing by his side in cowed silence.  
“Do your worst!”  
“Oh I will. My wife has given you far too much liberty and naturally this is how I am repaid. An example needs to be made.” He gestured towards one of his bouncers. “Bring one of the twi’leks.”  
One of the members of the hareem was manhandled into the room – Lurlin, the brother – hands in binders, frightened eyes peeking above a brutal leather panel fastened over his mouth. The dug used his manipulating feet to grab Casan’s pistol from its mount on the wall.  
Oh no…  
The dug arm-walked behind the the twi’lek and raised the gun held in his foot-fist.  
“No, please! You can’t do this!” Casan cried out in terror.  
“This is not a negotiation,” Kantreve said in bemused surprise at the outburst.  
“No, you can’t, I’ll do anything you ask,” he raved, thrashing in the clutches of the thugs around him. “Please, I’ll never disobey again, you can’t kill him, he’s innocent.”  
The dug chuckled at his pleas, knowing where his weak point lied, and beginning to believe him. He breaks free from the goons’ grips, and prostrates himself at the dug’s arm-feet, weeping in desperation.  
“You can’t… you can’t… anything… I’ll do anything,” he chokes out between sobs.  
Kantreve had him now. “Anything…” he teased quizzically.  
“Yes,” Casan begged, “just please, don’t kill him.”  
“And so you shall. Take her away, she’s getting tears over the carpet, and return the twi’lek to her quarters. I’ll need to dwell on the appropriate mortification for this unruly servant.”  
He’s dragged to his feet and removed from the room. All this time, Pareeha has stood watching in horrified stupefaction. When they are left alone, she speaks up.  
“You weren’t really going to shoot that poor boy were you?”  
“Boy? Oh right, I suppose you’re more knowledgeable about which is which. No-o-o, of course not.” The lie plastered on his grinning snout was as plain as day. “If you want to go back to that one, I’ll have it delivered to your bed on a moment’s notice. I wouldn’t blame you after that little human wretch, twi’leks are so much more pliable. I’m sorry to involve you in that bit of theater dear, but you know as well as I the duties and burdens of our status.”  
He sat back down to attend to his work. She left in disgust. Now she began to comprehend her place, and in her understanding she found nothing but grief and revulsion.  
She rushes to Casan’s chamber to find it locked. She palms access, to find him curled up facing away from her on the pillowed floor, energy chains draped over his body, attached at the wrist. He turns around hearing her enter, exposing the electronic muzzle clamping his jaw shut. She approaches.  
“I’m so sorry, I never wanted anything like this to happen.” She thumbs the sensor button to unlock the gag. “I’ll try to talk the penalty down-,“ she’s cut off as Casan swings his bound hands around in a rage to wrap around her throat.  
“Now you know what it’s like to have your speech taken away,” he says with fire in his eyes, the eyes of a killer. “You knew exactly what would happen you wanton animal! This is what your kind does!”  
“Is that all you think of me,” she choked out as he began to crush her windpipe.  
“When you bought your first slave you stood up to be counted with the enemies of all mankind! All I have to do is squeeze,” he glared.  
“All I have to do is scream.”  
Realizing what that meant for the other slaves, he withdrew his hand at once, the fire in his eyes replaced with cascades. Recovering her breath, she watches him returns the gag to his pretty face; it clamps back into place automatically. Pareeha knew to be caught with missing restraints would be fatal. She knew what it would mean to report this incident. She knew what had to be done.

Over five years serving in the Alliance and the middle-aged Tenzigo Weems is still no more than a corporal. He doesn’t mind that much, he knows he is well suited to his position, and that is listening to galaxy-wide signal chatter aboard Home One’s communications monitoring suite. He knows to keep an ear out for the unusual, and when a repeating signal in an outdated Alliance coded frequency starts emanating from a seemingly empty void in Hutt Space, he thinks it wise to bring it up with the Admiral.  
But wait, there was that togruta woman from Deck 14, Sector 5 that asked to be kept appraised of atypical intelligence emanating from the criminal underworld. He had given her several briefings before under the auspices of Major Derlin, and he saw no reason to break that pattern now. 

“Admiral Ackbar,” a woman’s voice lilted unexpectedly into the Mon Calamare’s office. The grizzled humorless soldier was not expecting to be disturbed by enlisted men.  
“For what purpose do you enter my quarters unannounced and uncalled for,” he growled at the orange togruta standing before him.  
“To ask you a favor, sir.”  
The gall of NCOs these days. “And what would that be your majesty? In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war on,” the piscatorial officer rose his voice as he lost his patience.  
It was now or never. “Years ago, I served with you during the Clone Wars. Now I beg you to help me in my struggle to recover a value asset of the Rebellion, and a close friend. My name is Ahsoka Tano. My master was Anakin Skywalker. You’re my only hope.”  
The fish gaped. Memories from the Water War on Mon Cala flooded back and his gruff exterior sloughed off in the presence of a comrade. “You! I remember! Little Commander Tano. I had thought you had perished in the Great Purge! What a boon this is. The Force truly works in mysterious ways. Pray, tell me your request. We Mon Calamari can scarcely repay you for the great service you did for us, nay, for the Alliance. Whatever you wish, Master Jedi, just ask and it will be done.”  
Giddy with hope, Ahsoka withstood her urge to unleash her emotions on the old salt. “Well, here are the details…”

Casan is jolted from his anxious slumber by a rumbling in the station. He rubs his tired eyes, sensing the clank of chains as he moves. He brings his hand down across his face to feel the cruel cold of a metallic brace clamped over his jaw; that explains his dry mouth. Still bound and gagged from the capricious whimsy of Kantreve, who just likes to see him squirm, regardless of his how well he obeys.  
More tremors.  
It had been two weeks since his master’s threat, and he had followed through. He was kept like this around the clock, the restraints only removed for hygiene and feeding. And his enforced travails to the lower levels of the station had taught him a whole new meaning of scandalous; he thought the metal bikini was as revealing as “clothing” could get, but he was wrong. Down there, his manly appendage was no longer concealed, though it remained covered just like the puffy pink tips of his bosoms. Down there, the patrons were allowed to touch, though fortuitously, gropes were all they were allowed to do.  
The shaking became more pronounced, louder.  
“Mmm mnn,” he mumbled, forgetting the obvious. What now, he thought through his groggy stupor, asteroids battering the shields again? But wait, meteor storms don’t get progressively louder.  
That’s when he heard it – a familiar sound – the tinny, tell-tale report of far-off blaster fire. Inside the dormitories. And it was getting closer. That sent him scampering across his cell, trying to find refuge and hide himself under the pillows, but the shackles that bound his wrist to the wall, hindered his efforts. The blaster shots drew closer, and he started to hear loud voices through the walls, when all of a sudden the sliding blast door blew open with a bang, sizzle, and clank. Out from the roiling smoke bursts a familiar face from Casan’s wildest dreams – Ahsoka Tano, dressed in the garb of an Alliance marine.  
“Looks like I found another one,” she shouts out matter-of-factly to the two marines at her flank. “You guys move on, I’ll liberate this one and catch up with you.”  
"Mmmm? Mmph!" Casan murmurs her name exuberantly behind the electronic muzzle, hardly able to believe his eyes.  
“Don't worry, I’m with the Rebellion, I’m here to get you girls out of here, and find a friend of mine. Let me get those restraints off of you,” she says, igniting her lightsaber to shear off the silencing device. “Just hold as still as you can....there!"  
"Ahsoka, thank heaven you're here. You have no idea how relieved I am, I thought I’d never see you again," he gushes with tears of joy.  
Ahsoka steps back. "How do you know my name?"  
"Rosie, It's me, Colan,” he insists, beating his chest. “Colan Casan!"  
Bewildered, the female togruta grows angry. "Is this kind of sick joke? Tell me what you know of Col Casan! What happened to him? Is he still alive?"  
"I'm telling you, I'm Col Casan! That warped, vile dug altered my body to look like a woman! Now that you’re here I can get back to the fleet and change back to normal!"  
"No, that's not true...it's impossible..."  
"Ahsoka please! What do I have to do to prove it's me? Here, look at my hand! It's my prosthetic, the one you cut off on Icnus!" He flips open the access hatch on his forearm, exhibiting the unmistakable crude replica of his lover’s facial silhouette.  
"It can't be..."  
"Please believe me Ahsoka," he implored in desperation.  
An idea entered her mind. "Lift up your skirt," she ordered.  
"What? HEY TH-," Casan clenched as she found her mark, and the carnivorous togruta instantly recognized her favorite meat.  
“It IS you! By the Force!"  
Their heartfelt embrace cannot last long.  
“Come,” Ahsoka beckons, “we have to meet up with Major Derlin. The rest of the captives should be aboard Home One by now.”  
Ahsoka covers his indecency in her cloak, and they take off down the corridors hand-in-hand to make their escape. She informs him they haven’t encountered the dug or any zygerrian woman. En route to the exfiltration point they come across Kantreve’s personal quarters, and among the many disparate artifacts and trophies of the slaver, lies Casan’s slug pistol. He takes it and its ammunition, and hides it under the cloak. Ahsoka points out the window, showing a small fleet of Rebel ships, headed by the massive cruiser Home One. Countless tiny vessels flee the station, jumping into hyperspace.  
“Our transport is just down there, all we need to do is go down a few levels to the nearest hangar. We’ve disabled long-range communications, but only temporarily, we need to get out of here before-“  
A sharp, loud, tinny noise is heard; Ahsoka lets out a yelp as she falls down. Casan drops down to help her, and sees a nasty cauterized hole in her thigh. Kantreve walks out of a hidden passageway on his smaller hind-limbs, brandishing a laser derringer in his massive ambulatory arm, its needle shaped emitter smoking. Pareeha cautiously steps behind him, her arm clutched in his hand while she carries a valise full of valuables, her visage worried.  
“Well, well, well, what have we here? So the slave was right – his girlfriend did come back. Fat lot of good it will do him. You’re getting to be a damn lot more trouble than you’re worth. Your rebel friends may have dealt my enterprise a terrible blow but I’ll build it back up, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to my ship to do it.” In truth he was getting as far away from Hutt Space as possible for this failure, he can make a deal with some other criminal element or maybe even the Empire.  
“The real question now is whether or not you rotten little idealists serve at my feet or are mounted on my wall. I’ve had enough of your delusional pretentions to manhood, so I’ll solve that problem by getting rid of the last vestiges of it. You’ll bring in a much higher sum that way. If I feel generous I might sell her to the same buyer…or maybe I’ll sell her piece by piece.”  
Berating the feminized Casan was bad enough, but threatening the death – or worse – of his companion was too much for him to bear. He stands up tall and erect, drops the cloak from his half-naked body, and slowly raises his pistol. The bothan laughs derisively, scarcely believing the scene.  
“Is the used goods seriously threatening me? Don’t bother trying to muster up the spirit to pull that trigger, I broke it long ago. Put that away darling or I might have a heart attack and pull the trigger on the orange one!”  
“No,” Casan said defiantly.  
“Do I have to go through this again?” A twinge of doubt needled the back of the dug’s mind as his limp grip on the derringer tightened for action.  
“NO,” he barked.  
Galba Kantreve realized too late that the slave did have the will, and jerked his gun arm upwards. “Son of a-“  
“NOOO!” With a thunderous, ear-splitting roar the hand cannon fires.  
Kantreve said Casan’s broken spirit couldn’t muster the will. Unfortunately for him, Casan’s spirit was never quite broken. Now the room and everyone in it was painted red and white by the blood, tissue, and bone that once occupied the space where the dug’s sneering head was. Casan slowly shifts his aim at the ruddy-furred zygerrian, the blood from her former spouse blending against her skin, his hands beginning to tremble as he contemplates revenge against the true architect of his suffering. She drops to her knees, pleading for her life just as he had to plead for Lurlin’s.  
Ahsoka mouths “don’t.” He tenses.  
Ahsoka says aloud, “don’t,” firmly, but softly, caringly. “Casan, she’s not worth it. You don’t have to kill her, I’m here now. Everything’s going to be alright.”  
He does not fire. He collapses to the floor, sobbing. She crawls over to him to drape the shawl back over him while Pareeha leans awestruck against the wall.  
The door slides open – the new visitors are Alliance commandos, led by Derlin himself.  
“There you are, we’ve been searching all over for – oh hell,” he pauses, misinterpreting the bloodstained room. “Somebody get a medic! We got wounded! Come on,” he said with a grunt lifting the pair up. “Take her along too,” he ordered, pointing to the zygerrian.  
The trio is escorted by the marines to the nearly empty hangar, just in time to see a rebel GR75 blast off. Casan and Ahsoka are guided to a UT-60D, where they are checked for injuries; a large bacta patch has to be attached to her leg, but he’s just glad it was nothing worse. They’re set down in the rear of the gunship, and the doors slide closed with a rolling thunk.  
As the U-wing vectors towards the Mon Cal cruiser’s hangar, Casan catches a glimpse from the escape vessels viewport of Home One casually delivering a short, blistering fusillade against the station, obliterating the top half of his prison. A wave of relief flows over him, and he buries his face in Ahsoka’s shoulder.


	4. Man

The medical facilities aboard the 1900-meter-long Home One are no mere infirmary but a genuine hospital, fully-equipped, fully-staffed, and seldom idle. Only a fully-converted medical frigate competes with a Mon Calamari ship hospital, and even then it comes out a distant second in terms of capabilities, though perhaps not in combat readiness or responsiveness. It is here that Colan Casan recuperates with his wounded partner and former Jedi Ahsoka Tano, and undergoes examination to discover the cause of his physical alteration to a voluptuous woman, and to discover the treatment for reversing the process.  
“Well,” says the tall and rotund Dr. Frigh, after being handed a datapad by the even taller nurse droid K-LY6 previously transferred from the Penitent Man. “I have verified that you are indeed Lieutenant Casan. I’ll notify command to take you off the missing-in-action roster.” Ahsoka limps into the room, making eye contact with her partner, who quickly averts his gaze.  
“Very funny,” Casan sasses impatiently, covering his nudity in medical robes. “I’ve been waiting here for hours getting fondled and probed by that machine, and that’s it?”  
“Funny, is it? Well you’ll love this then. We, that is, Kelly and I, have been unable to discern precisely how it is you…ah…came into your present condition, although it appears to be some form of genetic modification. But nano-molecular matter converters are wholly capable of reversing the process, you simply need to gain permission to the nearest Rebel-aligned system that possesses a medical facility with one of these very expensive machines.”  
“And where would that be,” Casan presses anxiously.  
“Alderaan,” chirps the cheery, neuter voice of Kelly.  
So there it was; he was stuck as a “woman,” with only the contents of his privates to contend otherwise. The modified KX security droid has a knack for saying the worst thing at the worst time, with no sense of protocol, a side effect of converting an Imperial war machine into a medical aide. Casan sinks back onto the cot, crestfallen, while Ahsoka puts her hands on his shoulders to comfort him. The doctor, not expecting that degree of emotion in response to the tasteless joke Kelly ruined, tries to amend the gloomy mood in the room.  
“Or-or-or any of a dozen worlds loyal to us, such as…such as… ah, Chandrila for example.”  
“Chandrila is a core world under imperial lockdown. You’re asking me to wait until the war is won to regain my masculinity. I can’t wait that long.”  
He stormed out of the room, brushing Ahsoka aside. She finds Casan back in their old room, but instead of relaxing on the bed or bathing after the trials he’s been through, he was looking at his reflection in the mirror of the refresher, wearing combat pants and a white undershirt.  
He looks again at his face. The auburn hair. The green eyes. The thin nose. The strong jaw. These features he has held since he became a man, but he does not recognize himself. He sees only the object of his captor’s lust; long tresses and lashes, full red lips, skinny waist, and a burgeoning bust-line. And that unwanted affair is a secret he is not ready to share with the woman who loves him. That woman appears behind him in the mirror to put her hand on his shoulder. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as if to hide the sizeable breasts on his chest but it only accentuates them.  
“Well,” he starts, putting on a front. “What’s important is that you came back and the slaves are free. Everybody’s returned home, happily ever after. Even if you did have to bring that zygerrian bitch along,” he said through clenched teeth, forcing a weak smile.  
She doesn’t need the Force to sense his unease. “Casan, I’m so sorry. I’ll help you pass this trying time in as little discomfort as possible. If there’s anything you need, just ask. It’s not so bad being a woman, after all I’ve been one all my life.”  
“I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” he scoffs, façade dropping. “Please,” he continues quieter.  
Ahsoka drops the subject and lets him sulk for now, returning to her shipboard duties. When she gets back she finds him curled up on the far side of the bed under the covers, facing away. She lies down on the near side, considering talking to him, or at least touching him, but she thinks better of it and leaves him alone for the night. He would need to come to terms with his new body on his own; she could not force the issue.  
But she wondered how she would accept the change in their relationship – if he came to her looking for intimacy, would she refuse? She had never looked that way at women before, but then again, Casan was not exactly a full woman; she had verified that for herself. No, she knew she loved the man, not his body. He was not that crude matter, but the luminous being within. She would have him even if he was fully female. The real question was whether he would ever come to her at all.

Casan attempts a return to normalcy in spite of his new appearance. His fellows take it well; Connel is fatherly but apologetic, Rett is understanding but tactless. Their gaffes are almost enough to make him crack a smile, but not quite.  
He’s welcomed back into action, but he has trouble fitting back into his imperial scout armor – no undercover disguises for the near future. Oh well, at least he can serve with the commandoes, Major Derlin is always looking for good men and women, or in his case, both. Participating in Alliance operations helps keep his mind off his appearance, a welcome, though temporary relief. He performs admirably, but it’s not hard for his compatriots to tell that though he can keep his mind on the mission, his nerves are so frayed they could snap at any moment.  
Something needs to be done.  
Casan tries to attempt to recover a small semblance of his former masculinity, but to no avail. He shaves his head nearly bald; the hair grows back to his shoulders in less than two weeks. He works out to regain his muscle mass after so long without exercise, becoming more ripped than he ever was before; it does nothing to reduce the jiggling masses of body fat at his buttocks and chest. He tapes his bosom flat to decrease the prominence of his femininity; he cannot tolerate the pain for more than a couple of hours. It is an unending nightmare as every attempt he makes to hide his body is thwarted by the unknown process that changed it. The best he can do to conceal his figure is wear loose fatigues and tuck his ponytail under a cap.  
But what really gets under his skin is Pareeha. His former captor, the slaver mistress responsible for his physical alteration and six months of sexual capitulation, herself taken prisoner by the Alliance on the raid that freed him. By an irritating coincidence, she had grown repentant for her actions, and in her genuine heartfelt remorse, begged the Rebels to allow her to serve their cause at Casan’s side as some small measure of restitution for her moral crimes.  
The Rebellion was not about to turn down a sincere volunteer, and Casan could not refuse their orders, but he didn’t have to like it. He loathed the zygerrian woman, and made sure everybody knew it. He took the opportunity to deliver whatever abuse upon her that he could, but stopping well short of stooping to her level of violation. Pareeha, in her profound sense of contrition, accepted the abuse gladly.  
At one point he winds up going too far, physically striking the woman so hard it sends her to the infirmary. That was going too far, it was one thing to berate the enlisted, it was pushing the bounds of leniency to brawl, but to floor a fellow freedom fighter with an unprovoked sucker-punch is serious. That earns him an official reprimand, and “Rosie” has to argue down a cool-off in the brig down to confinement to quarters. He won’t be getting back into ground-pounding action anytime soon.  
Something needs to be done.

Casan may not be broken, but he is not fixed. Three weeks into his demotion and he is as antisocial as ever. His only sojourns outside of the berth he shares with Ahsoka involve mealtimes or else acting as longshoreman for the logistics corps, mopily loading and offloading supplies and shuffling them about to and fro ships and armories. It is literally the least he can do to be considered part of the Alliance without being a drain on its resources.  
Ahsoka retires to her quarters to find an alarming sight: a fully armored Imperial Biker Scout gazing out the window into space. It jerks its head towards her in surprise then looks away, as if in shame. She realizes at once it must be Casan. He was contemplating something through the transparisteel porthole.  
“I thought you weren’t going to be back til 21:00,” his modulated speech echoes outside the helmet, head still turned away.  
“Change in the duty roster. Colan…what are you doing in that suit?”  
“I was…looking at my reflection.”  
Puzzled, she pries further. “You realize the visor is still down, right?”  
“That is exactly what I am looking at,” he replies.  
She senses the hurt in his voice. She begins to perceive exactly what it is he’s doing but, sensing that the cover of his clandestine dress-up activities was already blown, he poured his heart out to her anyway.  
“In the academy on Chandrila – and for years afterward – that white plasteel beak was my face. And now it is the only face I’m comfortable with, the only reflection I recognize. It’s the only way I can remember who I was.”  
“Casan you’re still-“  
“Didn’t you ever wonder why they changed my body,” he interrupted.  
“I can imagine. But I didn’t want to pry, I knew whatever happened must have been unpleasant and you’d tell me when you were ready. Are you ready?” she inquired tenderly.  
“You cannot know the unfathomable hatred I hold for that Zygerrian woman. For six months, I was forced to dance and wait and grovel. For six months I was her plaything, forced over and over again to pleasure her and- why do you think they left my manhood! She forced herself on me again and again, and I could not resist! Worse, I enjoyed it. I can hardly look you in the eye.”  
“That’s it,” Ahsoka replies, incredulous.  
“Wha-“  
“You mean to tell me your obnoxious insubordination and cynical manic-depression is because Pareeha forced you to sleep with her, and you felt guilty about it?” Her anger grew. “I thought it was something serious like torture, or being passed around by men, or some sort of genuine trauma, but making this fuss of a stricken conscience over defensible infidelity is something else. Everybody in the rebellion has had to deal with rape of one sort or another, and you embarrass this crew because you think you had it rough? You want to know what suffering is, try learning your former master became the archenemy of all that is good in the universe and being forced to fight him. Try losing a battle to Darth Vader and spending a year in a dull, dark, dank wasteland, utterly alone with nothing but the taunting laughs of dark Force phantoms. Try having to hide your identity from everyone you know and love because to become known is the greatest danger to the Rebellion.”  
He hadn’t seen her get this worked up since before they were an item, and hadn’t ever heard her reveal that part of her past.  
“Wait, Lord Vader was your master?”  
“Anakin Skywalker was my master, and everything good about him was murdered and transformed into a hideous mechanical monstrous evil at the head of your Empire. If you want to brood and be unhappy for the rest of your life, so be it, but don’t do so on my account. This is your problem, and you need to grow up and deal with it, not foist it onto others. The Alliance does not have time for this immaturity and unwillingness to cooperate,” she said storming off into the refresher to bathe and get ready for some shuteye.  
That was a lot for his brain to process.  
She didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it. What an insult. What an outrage. What an…ass he was being. He had just heard the most horribly depressing tale in his entire life and all he was doing was thinking about himself. He should know better. Half the people he knew had lost far more than he had ever possessed. How could he behave this way when he knew Alderaanians in the Rebellion who had never swerved in their duty? It was shameful, and he knew it. He wasn’t being a man. He wasn’t being a woman. He was being a child.  
He should have been grateful to Ahsoka for pulling him out of that den of depravity but had he ever expressed that gratitude? No, he’d just sulked around, making it all about him. It was time for him to get over it. He was stuck in this body, and he had to make the best of this situation, even if it meant dealing with the boot-licking jackal.  
Ahsoka reentered the bedroom, wearing nothing but a thin tank-top and underwear, refraining to meet the gaze of his helmet’s visor.  
“You’re right Ahsoka. I’ve acted shamefully. I can’t say how sorry I am for my behavior. What’s worse, I never properly thanked you for rescuing me. I should have done it the minute you brought me back aboard Home One. I’d like to rectify that now by thanking you for talking some sense into me. I deserved that dressing-down. I just hope you can forgive me.”  
A pause.  
“I will always forgive you Col,” she said compassionately.  
Relieved, his mind drifted to the ramifications of her disregard for his “infidelity.”  
“If it’s not too much to ask…would you still have me?”  
She walked over to him, lifting the visor of his helmet to expose his face, and planted a kiss on his full, red lips.  
“You never needed to ask. I love you Colan Casan.” She’d been waiting since their separation to tell him, and finally he’d become willing to listen.  
He’d been waiting years to hear those words, and it was worth the wait.  
He immediately begins to strip out of his armor, but pauses.  
“Are you sure you’re okay with me like this?”  
“I’d have you whether you were a woman or a weequay,” her attitude changes to one of lust, one he began to share. “Now get out of that ugly uniform so I can see your beautiful body.”  
He was a bit hurt by the slight against the armor he took such good care of, but he was intrigued by her insinuation that she found him attractive. He would have preferred being called handsome instead, but that probably no longer applied to him. He could live with it if it meant getting along famously with his partner in love again.  
He races to climb all the way out of his armor, stripping to nothing, even removing the band that kept his ponytail in place. It was the first time he had been completely and voluntarily naked in ages. He bravely withdrew the arms covering his unmentionables, new and old. Casan stood before Ahsoka, displaying his full figure to her for the first time. Her eyes drew longingly over his body, taking in the sumptuous image of feminine flesh. Gently drooping mammaries as large as his head, with perky pink aureolae. Delicate fingers and toes at the ends of lean, toned limbs. Thick thighs that complemented his waspish midsection and perfectly proportioned hips. Fair face with pouting lips and fierce eyes. Waving fiery hair that tickled the top of his bosom, and formed a barely perceptible treasure trail from his well-defined navel down to…  
“Come here, handsome.”  
There it is.  
Casan’s glowering pouty visage turns into a blushing smile. She knows what she likes and she likes what she sees – the organs of a man. He ambles over to Ahsoka, her eyes fixed on the gentle bouncing of his female characteristics as he moved, a heat growing in her loins from the unintentional erotic display. She takes care of the panties, and he tenderly relieves her of the undershirt, allowing her orange handfuls to flop out freely.  
“You’re bigger than me,” she lightly giggles in mild disbelief and a hint of jealousy as they compare chest sizes for the first time. Preempting any chagrin on his part, she immediately clarifies. “But not where it counts. Now come on,” she entreats, giving him another kiss while petting his loose hair down. She holds her arm out as she lies down on the bed, signaling what she has in mind before she starts to speak, “whenever you’re ready.”  
He took her hand and she pulled him down on top of her, his hefty heaving hills mingling with her modest mature melons.  
“See, that’s not so bad, is it,” she asked her shy lover.  
“No, I guess not. I tried avoided touching them as much as possible, and I never wanted to admit it, but they do feel good,” he answered.  
Their hands explored the creases between their entwined bodies, as their bosoms continually docked and shifted with each other. Casan plucked the fully-ripened fruit on her chest, eliciting a moan from the togruta. Ahsoka grabbed a breast in each hand, feeling their weight, and gave them a soft squeeze. Her lover tensed up; she saw his eyes squeeze and his face wince. This was an unfamiliar experience for both of them – for her, handling a woman’s body from this perspective; for him, offering this new body to another of his own volition.  
“I’m alright, don’t stop. Just…go slow,” he reassured her.  
Going slow was exactly what Ahsoka wanted. It meant more time to enjoy the new sensations of a woman’s body against her own, but with a very big advantage no natural woman had. Casan allowed her to knead and massage the mounds on his chest, for once at leisure to enjoy the consensual fondling that had been denied him for months in captivity. He moved his arms behind her back while she locked her legs around his hips, embracing her as she buried her face in his cleavage, wrapping her natural dark red lips around a plump and appetizing pink nipple.  
He grabbed hold of her montrals tightly, the pleasure too much to bear. Her tongue was lashing at the tip of his breast under the suction of her mouth, and the tip of his rapidly engorging manhood was poking at her groin, trying to gain entrance to her inner folds. She released her mouth for an instant to urge him on.  
“Go on big boy, show me you’re just as man as ever.”  
That was all the encouragement he needed, to be recognized as a man in spite of his appearance for even an instant. Casan gripped himself, and plunged his steely-hard length into her coral-colored love canal, savoring the dual sensations of feminine and masculine passion as Ahsoka kept her lips attached to his chest and took hold of his peachy bottom, alternating her hands between his jiggling rear and running them through locks of hair the color of her skin. Tonight he was going to prove he was a man, not to Ahsoka, but to the person who needed to know it most – himself.  
His confidence grew with the pleasure he took from and gave to his mate. He gladly relished the feelings emanating from his chest. He wasn’t going to waste this chance; he was going to do this better than ever before. Six months of unwanted training from that zygerrian wench was going to be put to good use. He paced himself, timing his thrusts with the older togruta’s receptive counter-thrusts, ensuring he hit every sweet spot he remembered. He knew could hold it back and time it just right…and that’s when it happened.  
He felt a shake – it was Ahsoka. She was moaning, barely audible, into the weighty chest-flesh pressing into her face, and she tightened her leg-lock and grip on his bum as she ground her womanhood into his pelvis, getting the most out of her climax. He increased the rapidity of his thrusts, and in an instant he released himself into her deepest recesses, sharing their heights of pleasure simultaneously while he ignored stifling the yell that overtook him.  
She withdrew her head from Casan’s bust and relaxed her arms and legs, letting them fall flat on the bed. Meanwhile the human collapsed on top of the brightly-colored female, their bountiful chests pressed against each other under the full weight of his body, the dull pain of the compression too unimportant for the exhausted lovers to heed. He slid off her, but not out of her, rolling her over with him so they lay on their sides, panting and sweating, holding their warm bodies close with his softening maleness still inside, tingles of pleasure still perforating their dual being.  
“That…was the best,” Casan huffs.  
“The best…yet,” Ahsoka retorted with a sly grin.  
They just lay there, basking in the afterglow and enjoying each other’s smiles until sleep overtook them.

As time passes, Casan slowly comes to terms with his new body. Ahsoka reaffirms his masculinity despite the altered appearance. Sometimes she reaffirms it on top, sometimes she reaffirms it on bottom, but it is most certainly firm. Occasionally someone familiar will slip and call him a “her” or be totally unaware of his history, but it no longer bothers him.  
He tries to reintegrate into Rebel Alliance operations, but the need for the type of missions he conducted on their behalf is decreasing. It’s not his fault, the Alliance welcomes his changed attitude, but something big is about to happen. The rebel fleet has begun massing near Sullust.  
Casan manages to get himself assigned to upper starboard point-defense command. He thinks he must have impressed somebody after showing some degree of anti-fighter skill in strategic simulations. The position is not surmised to be particularly high risk. He reports for duty to his new assignment, greeting Connel at the door.  
“Glad to see you working security nearby Connel, makes me feel safe.”  
“Just here to keep the peace, kid,” his old friend assures.  
He enters the command post, wondering what Connel meant by that remark. He finds, to his horror and chagrin, the Zygerrian female Pareeha, his odious and repentant former captor and erstwhile mistress.  
“Good morning, Lieutenant Casan, sir,” she beams in deference.  
Furious, Casan complains to the Mon Cal gunnery chief in command of the section, “this has to be some mistake.”  
“No mistake Lieutenant, take your place.” The Mon Cal pointed towards a monitor cubicle, to the right of and adjacent to Pareeha’s station.  
“But-“  
“Did I not make myself clear, Lieutenant?”  
“No, sir.” He sat down, fuming. He grumbled to himself, but he wasn’t going to make a scene again after last time. He was a man, in spite of his appearance; he might not grin, but he would certainly bear it. He would not acknowledge her and he would not touch her, no matter how hard she tried to gain his approval with those dragonsnake tears.  
Back in his quarters, he griped over the assignment and Ahsoka had to listen to it again.  
“I can’t believe that- that- that jackal! How can they do this to me? And what’s Connel doing being so nice to her, I thought we were friends! Now I have to look at her stupid, evil face all day for-“  
“Don’t do this again, Casan.”  
“Do what? If I had known that the architect of my degradation would be-“  
“I knew I should have told you right after you got off the first time. Didn’t you ever wonder how the Alliance found that slaver hideout? Why they bothered to come at all?”  
“I never gave it much thought, I always felt the important thing was just that you came back.”  
“It was her. The Zygerrian girl. Pareeha. She was the one who contacted the Rebellion. It was a message from her, putting her own life at risk to save you and the other slaves from further torment. She told me what her dug husband did, and why that made her betray everything she knew. Without her, nobody would ever have found you. We’d never have seen each other again. And it took me revealing my identity to the Admiral, who just so happened to be an old acquaintance, under the strictest secrecy, to O-K the mission in the first place, with or without the location. Without that lucky coincidence, you’d still be there, shaking your udders for a bunch of dirty old men.”  
“Oh.” That was a lot to take in. She had a habit of making him feel like a real heel, which wasn’t far from the truth. “I suppose I should thank you again for-“  
“For giving you a kick in the pants, I know. Col, I don’t need your gratitude, I already have everything I want, and that’s you. But you need to relinquish your animosity against the poor woman. It’s not healthy for either of you. That’s who you need to thank.” He had a bad feeling this scathing monologue was going to continue. “I know she did terrible things to you, but she’s sincerely remorseful, and wants to atone in some small measure. That’s why she’s always there Casan. She lobbied to reduce your demerit, and to allow you to serve on the anti-fighter deck. I think she deserves absolution, even if you don’t. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive her, and mean it.”  
He starts to open his mouth to apologize to her again, but she puts a finger over it.  
“You know what, don’t respond. Let’s calm down the fun way.”  
“If you don’t want me shooting my mouth off, you’ll have to gag me,” he teased, as he watched her strip, and started undoing his own garments.  
“Don’t tempt me, I saved that junk from Kantreve’s station.”  
“Y-you did?” Those weren’t exactly pleasant memories. At least not emotionally, but the muscle memory associated with his captivity hadn’t totally worn off; particularly the male muscle that got the most use during his stint as a slave. It twitched slightly at the picture in his head, though he shook the thought from his mind and focused on the now-bare togruta lady standing before him, waiting to pounce.  
“Yes, but I never thought I’d need them,” she purred. “Why, do you want to try them on again?”  
“Maybe next time,” he gulped nervously, as he got back to business.  
If next time was as good as this time, it might be worth it. 

A ship-wide broadcast summons all hands to the nearest holographic projector. An image of Mon Mothma appears, and begins to speak.  
“The Emperor has made a critical error and the time for our attack has come.”  
Endor. A new death star. An infiltration team. A major attack – THE major attack. The tension is palpable through every weld and rivet of the ship. A chance to win the war and defeat the Empire once and for all. There is a nervous excitement spreading throughout the ship and Casan experiences that most Rebellious of feelings: hope.

After the Shuttle Tydirium disembarked from Home One, Casan receives a message from Ahsoka, telling him to meet her in lower maintenance garage of the port hangar bay. When he gets there he only sees a cavalcade of pilots and ground crew tending to their fighter craft.  
“Rosie! Rosie,” he calls out, using her Alliance alias.  
“Over here, Casan,” her voice coming from the direction of a busted-up old Y-wing with red and blue livery. He sees her hunched over the near engine cowling, work-goggles hanging off her head-tails, fiddling around in the internals with a hydrospanner.  
“What are you doing with that beat-up antique,” he asks.  
“In about twenty-four hours, flying it.”  
He barks up at her in alarm, “you what?”  
“I’m part of the fighter screen for the cruisers. Surely I must have told you I flew wishbones during the Clone Wars.”  
“Yes, but I didn’t know you still did! Are you telling me this is what you’ve been doing for the Rebellion the whole time?”  
“Sure have, and a lot of other ships too. Did you think I just sat around waiting for you to return every time we weren’t together?”  
“No, but…oh I’m not going to put my foot in my mouth again over another stunning revelation.”  
Ahsoka gave a short giggle. “Come here, I wanted to show you something,” she gestured towards him to climb the stepladder to the cockpit while she crawled over the superstructure.  
There, emblazoned on the nosecone, was a stylized depiction of a man he recognized. A smiling, bare-chested, human hunk with reddish-brown hair and green eyes, a robotic right arm curled up toward the viewer giving a lewd gesture. There was something worth fighting for, for both of them.  
“If that was supposed to cheer me up, it worked,” he said with sardonic laughter.  
“Good,” she said with a peck on the cheek. “Then you know what I’m going to ask you.”  
“Yes,” he sighed.  
“This may be your last chance. Tell her. For me.”

In the belief systems of Chandrila, mercy and forgiveness, even in the face of the gravest wrongs, were regarded as the most divine of virtues. This reflected a millennia-long history of diplomacy and contact with the Jedi. This is why Mon Mothma’s Alliance to Restore the Rebellion had always attempted to sue for peace, but never considered surrender. But it was never easy.  
These were the thoughts roiling in Casan’s mind as he confronted the skinny caniform zygerrian that had wronged him in the past. He cornered Pareeha in a side corridor, and now she was alone with him, afraid of what punishment he would surely mete out on her, and waiting for it expectantly with quiet dignity and grace. But he knew he could never be a man again if he could not be the better man now.  
“Pareeha,” he started, unsure of how to go on. She winced in preparation of the venom that usually tinged his voice, but this was the first time he had ever addressed her by her name instead of an insult, and all she sensed was sadness and regret in Casan’s softened feminine lilt. “I don’t know how to say this, and I never thought I would.” He swallowed his pride, and admitted, “I don’t hate you anymore.”  
Great, another genius aphorism from the great orator. You really blew it now, Casan, he thought to himself.  
Pareeha surprised him when she smiled and started crying. She understood his intent. She nearly jumped, wrapping her arms around his neck in a grateful hug.  
“Thank you,” she gasped through tears. “I never meant you any harm. I’m so sorry.”  
Under normal circumstances he would have been disgusted at the display of affection. But the mere act of uttering that half-baked, full-hearted apology lifted the weight of the universe off his shoulders.  
“It’s alright,” he reassured, returning the hug and patting her on the back with the first sincere acceptance of her offer of remorse. He still couldn’t suppress the thought that he’d rather see her dead, but it was progress. “It’s alright.”

Ahsoka and Casan got dressed in their rooms following one last loving before they jumped into the fire.  
“Be careful out there, alright?”  
“We’ll see each other again, Casan. I promise,” she swore, sharing a long kiss before separating.

The Rebel Fleet exits hyperspace with grim anticipation, its crews seeing nothing. No ships, just the massive half-complete satellite orbiting the green sanctuary moon.  
In Upper Starboard Point Defense Command, Casan hears nervous comms chatter crackles as sensors return no readings, when, with a sudden lurch, Home One swerves off its course with the artificial moon.  
A trap!  
An endless stream of TIE fighters swarms the Rebel Fleet as an armada of Star Destroyers bears down on them. Things go swimmingly for a time, and Casan’s station manages to supervise the destruction of countless TIE fighters, being personally responsible for targeting and eliminating over a dozen. He prays that Ahsoka is safe. He reminds himself that Y-wings are tough and fast, and that if anybody could make do in one against a swift TIE interceptor it’s a Jedi. Then his reverie is broken.  
Casan and Ahsoka, despite being separated by the gulf of space, have the unenviable mutual position of seeing the Liberty explode in a bright green kyber-flash – the Death Star is operational. Flying into the Imperial Starfleet to escape the superlaser and commence broadsides is hardly any comfort, but they have no choice, and Casan trusts the Admiral.  
That’s when the real battle begins. The anti-starfighter defenses seize whatever chance they can away from the TIE swarms to take potshots at the Imperial capital ships, suspense growing as Home One weaves closer to the mighty Executor and back again as the unwieldy super star destroyer attempts to bring its longer range guns to bear in the melee. The Mon Calamari cruisers are maneuverable but they cannot evade all attacks. They are strong, but they cannot resist that much firepower indefinitely.  
For a fleeting moment, turbolaser fire overpowers and shorts out Home One’s deflector shields – right over the point defense operations blister housing Casan’s unit. And in that brief instant of time during the shields’ lapse, they witness, in excruciating slow motion, the death throes of a damaged TIE/sa, the dual-pod bomber hurtling directly towards them, narrowly avoiding through sheer bad luck all the fire directed towards it.  
He sees it coming. They all see it coming. But they are powerless to stop it, and they are already getting out of their control seats by the time the Mon Cal officer gives the order to evacuate, when –

A tiny, almost imperceptible explosion flashes for an instant on the upper starboard hull of the great and immense Mon Calamari starship Home One. Across the distances measured in space, it is little more than a speck of carbon scoring on the hull.

Up close, it is a charnel house. The super structure has been torn asunder by the crashing TIE bomber; the space battle is visible to the interior, the shields having regenerated just in time to prevent it from being totally exposed to the vacuum and its occupants sucked out. Twisted metal shapes and twisted humanoid anatomies are strewn across the fiery wreckage. Casan is among them, but he is not among the dead.  
He barely regains consciousness from the blast, his ears still ringing. He lifts himself up with indescribable pain wracking his entire body. He can only see out of one eye, and what he sees isn’t good; his gracile body is covered in gore and burns. Much of the false skin on his prosthetic arm is in tatters, almost completely exposing the skeletal mechanism that is scarcely holding together. He tastes blood. Casan wills himself to cough intentionally – no blood. That’s a good sign, means his lungs aren’t injured. He paws his face with his good hand – OUCH! – there’s a hole in his cheek at the corner of his mouth, preventing it from sealing. He’ll have to compensate when he next needs to speak. He hears shouting; the survivors are regrouping to escape the inferno, and triage units have arrived to assist.  
“Kid! Kid! There you are,” a dull voice and blurry figure rushes towards him. Connel was just outside and he had been clearing debris to reach the survivors. “Holy…,” he gasps looking at the bloodied rebel.  
“Nice to see you too, Connel,” he gurgles.  
“Come on Casan, we got to get you to medbay fast. Can you stand?”  
“Yeah, I think so,” he hobbles up, trying not to think about the agonizing throbbing that begun to clarify in his abdomen and right leg.  
As Casan limps along as fast as he can, he spies Pareeha pinned under the metal spars that once comprised her work station. None of the other rescuers seemed to notice her. She’s unconscious but nowhere near as beat-up as he is. Flames are closing in though. He briefly mulled leaving her to her fate. He could let her go, passing off the responsibility to the medicos come what may –no, he couldn’t, not after everything he’d been through.  
“Kid, what are you doing, we gotta get you outta here!?”  
“Not until we get her out first. You two,” he pointed towards incoming troopers from the response team, “help me get her out.”  
The rebel crewmen grab the Zygerrian while Casan plants himself in front of the wreckage, straining to lift the beams pinning her down, hearing horrific snaps and cracks amidst the smarting injuries and exploding machinery. The superior strength of the mechno-arm permits him to hold it up just long enough for them to drag Pareeha out, but not her crushed legs. They immediately haul her away on a hover-stretcher. He releases the spar, half of the artificial structure coming off along with it.  
“Great going kid, you’re a hero, now get a move on,” Connel frantically urges, as he helps up another wounded gunner.  
Casan tucks his ruined arm in close and starts staggering out of the center into the corridors, heading in the direction of the ship’s hospital. However, he soon requires rescue himself. He hears a sickening crunch as he puts weight onto his leg, comprehending that a hairline fracture just turned compound. He winced and gasped through the excruciating impairment, struggling to keep up by hopping and hobbling along. That’s not why he needed rescue though.  
The pain, in a sense, was a good thing, because it kept his mind active and alert. He was beginning to struggle just with that, as dizziness and delirium prepared to overtake him. He knew he was falling victim to shock from blood loss, but he couldn’t tell where from. Just a few yards away from the turbolift that would take him directly to the emergency room of the infirmary, he collapses to his knees, too weak to go on. Connel and the rest of the crew are too busy shoving the rest of the survivors into the shaft to notice his predicament.  
Casan wraps both his arms around his body, gripping himself in a shiver. His uninjured left hand feels something strange, warm and wet. He looks down to see a vertical tear on the front of his dark uniform jacket, about four inches long. He reaches around to his back and feels it there too.  
Uh-oh.  
He unthinkingly peels open his jacket to examine his shirt underneath. Same slit on the right side of his abdomen, but gore has stained the olive green fabric, and it twisted around to stick to his side, concealing whatever injury was causing him such distress. He lifts his shirt to inspect his taut belly – bad idea.  
“Come on kid, we’re nearly there,” Connel calls back as he loads the last passenger into the turbolift.  
“Actually…I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” his androgyne friend bleats pathetically back at him.  
“Nonsense, I-,“ he pauses after turning around, expecting to see him lagging behind but spotting him on his knees just a bit behind him, clutching his stomach. “Oh, hell,” he rushes towards him.  
He sees a red object on the floor right in front Casan, smaller than a finger. He’s puzzled until he witnesses the horrific extent of his friend’s injuries. Casan is holding his guts in his hands. A thin piece of shrapnel had shorn straight through his side during the explosion, and his clothing was all that was keeping him in once piece. That tiny red object on the ground was a piece of severed intestine.  
Holding back a retch, Connel hurriedly picks him up and jogs into the turbolift. Shockingly, Casan continues to speak.  
“Connel…whatever you do…don’t let...Rosie…see my body. Tell her…I was lost…in the explosion….”  
“Don’t talk like that, kid, you’re gonna be fine! You’re gonna make it, you’ll see,” he consoles, forcing an ear-to-ear grin in nervous desperation.  
“Please!” he shrieks, calling upon the last of his strength to form complete sentences. “Don’t let her see me like this! Promise me!”  
“I…I promise, Casan.”  
But Casan didn’t hear him.

“What in the blazes is this?” Lead surgeon Dr. Frigh screamed at the portly sergeant carrying the body of a woman he thought he had seen before but was grateful he couldn’t remember. Mon Cal, human, and droid nurses rushed in to put the body on a med-table.  
“You gotta help my friend,” Connel begged, wheezing in dread.  
“Friend? This slaughterhouse special? My boy,” he tiredly explained to the older man, “this is a hospital, not a meat freezer.”  
“Doctor, we’ve got a pulse,” a Mon Cal surgeon exclaimed.  
“Why didn’t you say so! Get the sergeant out of here, we need to get to work,” said the tall pompous doctor.  
“She’s not breathing,” said a human nurse, forcing a tube down the subject’s throat.  
“He’s not breathing, you mean,” corrected the medical droid K-LY6, confirming the patient’s gender with its sensors, to the other doctors’ momentary confusion before they continued their attempts to save the patient’s life.  
Damn, Frigh thought, that’s where I recognized her…him.  
“Pulse is fading,” declared another Mon Cal.  
“Open him up,” Dr. Frigh ordered imperiously.  
The droid Kelly moved forward, ready to use its unmatchable precision to open up the patient’s chest cavity and hook the internals up directly to life support machinery while the surgeons repaired all the damage they could.  
Kelly was not squeamish. It felt no reaction toward the gruesome display of battlefield injury. It wasn’t sure it could “feel” in any sense of the word at all, at least as understood by life forms. It perceived something akin to satisfaction when it performed its programming’s function of medical skill and monitoring patient behavior. It was pleased to converse with its patients, and meet them repeatedly, seeing them operating in full health. The cheery attitude was programmed, but it was not false. It was displeased when it became aware that a patient it had treated and known had died. It knew that it could no longer converse with them, and see them healthy. Kelly assumed this was the same reason life forms experienced sadness; it was most unpleasant.  
Kelly remembered this patient with perfect computational clarity, and endeavored to stave off the thing it understood as sadness, even as the Battle of Endor raged outside.

Ahsoka Tano, “Blue Twelve,” breathed a sigh of relief as her scopes confirmed the Death Star’s destruction behind her racing BTL. The Emperor was dead, and his empire would soon follow. Most of the Imperial Starfleet was fleeing Endor, and many starfighters were being recalled to their ships as the heavy hitters began mopping up the remnants, for destruction or for capture, or else vaporizing wreckage before it could reach the sanctuary moon.  
She guided her fighter, along with most of the rest of her squadron, back to Ackbar’s headquarters frigate, in hopes of reuniting with Casan, and maybe some other long lost friends. She wouldn’t have to hide who she was from them anymore. It was such a relief to no longer worry about others’ safety.  
Like the rest of the returning pilots, she was given a hero’s welcome, surrounded by cheering rebel men and women, but there was one face that was noticeably absent. In its place she saw a disheveled, worried-looking man covered in blood and burns, pushing his way through the crowd as she tried to blend in with it. Now she grew worried too.  
“Connel, what is this? Where’s Casan?”  
“Rosie, I think you oughta siddown.”  
“What’s the matter, nothing’s wrong is there?”  
“I think you need to calm down a minute.”  
“Why? I am calm, I just want to see Casan.”  
“Now Rosie, I made a promise to the kid, I-“  
“Promise, what promise? What are you talking…” Oh no. Ahsoka had seen a few small battle scars on the cruiser, but hadn’t thought about it when she flew in. Now she remembered where the damage was, and it was right where Casan was stationed. “I want to see him right now.”  
“I can’t do that, Rosie!”  
“Take me to him, please!”

In a dark chamber, lit only by the glow of minimal fluorescent lighting, a murky figure floats in a murky liquid. Ahsoka Tano stands alone in the critical recovery ward, in front of the glowing bacta tank holding her gravely injured significant other. The hibernating medical droid K-LY6 keeps a watchful vigil in the corner. Her hand is pressed against the glass, gazing through the cloudy healing fluid at the unconscious femme, stained red with blood seeping from his unhealed wounds. Tears stream down her orange cheeks. She had seen the chart.  
Lieutenant Casan, Colan. Third-degree burns: treatment – bacta suspension; prognosis – full recovery in 2 days. Critical blood loss: treatment – bacta suspension and IV transfusion drip; prognosis – full recovery in 3 days. Compound fracture of right fibula: treatment – servo-splint; prognosis – safe to walk in 4 days, full recovery in 2 weeks. Destruction of left eye: treatment – defer to cybernetics. Destruction of right manipulator prosthesis: treatment – defer to cybernetics. Open chest surgery: treatment – bacta suspension and IV drip; prognosis – full recovery in 3 days. Partial evisceration: treatment – surgical repair and immediate biomechanical replacement; prognosis – safe to walk in 7 days, full recovery in 2 weeks. Laceration and partial deconstruction of left cheek: treatment – facewrap with medical adhesive to ensure breathing mask seal; prognosis – defer to cosmetic reconstruction.  
She read and reread it, the images gnawing at her imagination, almost grateful she could hardly see her love. Kelly starts whirring, detecting the motion of a new arrival. Ahsoka turns around, drying her eyes. The intruder is a young man, dressed in a black tunic, with sandy hair and fair complexion.  
“A friend of yours?” the man asked. She nodded. “I’m sorry, Master Tano.”  
“Huh? How did you-“  
“I sensed you when I returned to the ship. I thought it would be prudent to seek you out. Come with me to the moon’s surface. My father wants to speak with you. I think it will do you both some good.”  
She knew who this was. She had spent the last 4 years trying to avoid him for his own safety. There could have been nothing more dangerous than for the apprentice of Skywalker to make herself known to the son of Skywalker.

“Why are we here, Commander Skywalker,” Ahsoka asked with melancholy nonchalance, standing in a shaded copse of Endor redwoods a few hundred feet from the shuttle.  
“To grant you some closure. And please, call me Luke.”  
“Anakin Skywalker is dead. I don’t see how –“  
“Ahsoka,” a familiar voice called in the darkened clearing. She looked over her shoulder at her companion. He hadn’t uttered a sound. It seemed to be far away, yet very near at the same time.  
“Anakin,” she gasped.  
She spun around, searching her surroundings. Then she saw it; a glowing apparition conjuring itself out of thin air. It resolved into the kindly aspect of the tall, handsome Jedi Knight who was once her master. She dropped to her knees in awe at the sight of the Force Ghost.  
Luke Skywalker watched the scene from afar. He did not see his father – the vision was not for him – but he didn’t need to. He could feel his presence in the Force.  
A few minutes later, Ahsoka got up and headed back to the shuttle.  
“Thank you Comma-…Luke. I’m so sorry you never got to know him.”  
“Don’t be. I couldn’t have asked for a better father. Now let’s get you back to your pal back at the fleet. I’m sure he’s going to be alright.”

Casan opens his eyes.  
He can hardly see – just a murky bluish haze. Is this what it’s like to be dead? No, he can’t be dead, he can feel his body. He tries to call out but can’t say a word, just a muffled groan; there’s something down his throat, and wrapped around the lower part of his face.  
Red hair wafts in front of his vision. He senses he’s submerged in liquid. Bacta, he supposes. That’s right, he was heavily wounded. He’d need to be in bacta to be alive. He notices uncomfortably stiff pressure on his abdomen, no doubt some form of mechanical device keeping him stable. He tries to move his extremities, but the strain and exertion is too much, and he can’t accomplish more than a light wiggle.  
He hears noise outside the tank, sees dark outlines of figures gathering in front of it. He thinks he can discern the horned silhouette of someone he loves, but dismisses the thought as a heightened influx of anesthetic is delivered into his bloodstream, sending him back into a drug-induced sleep.

He awakes again, with a jolt this time. He’s gasping for air, using his own lungs for the first time in a week to breathe through the mask attached to his face. He can move and see much easier now. The fluid is clear. He sees Ahsoka standing apprehensively amidst a throng of medical specialists operating various terminals. He tries pressing his right hand against the glass, but there’s not much of a hand left; he switches to the other one.  
Casan hears a whirring and revving of machinery, and with an unceremonious flushing sound, the bacta drains from the healing tank. Moments later he is hoisted out of the tank on a harness into the waiting arms of Mon Cal healers who tenderly and methodically remove the various life support devices plugged into him and dry him off. All he does throughout the physicians’ pampering is cross eyes with Ahsoka’s teary-eyed, beaming countenance across the room.  
Finishing up their removal of the gear, the medicos lift the breath-mask off his head and start unraveling the surgical tape used to clamp his mouth shut. In order to gain a seal for the mask, they had to gag him, but this left him with ferocious scarring at the left corner of his mouth, marring the beauty of his delicate face.  
Ahsoka doesn’t care. With the surgeons’ approval she rushed forward to embrace him, but his weakened and unsteady frame collapses into her arms. They gaze into each other’s eyes. Words fail them; they are too exhausted and exhilarated to ruin the moment with sap or sarcasm. She stands over him as he relaxes into her lovers’ cradle, and they share a wet kiss, damp with antiseptic.  
Half the room bursts into applause surrounding the feminine couple, before being silenced by Dr. Frigh.  
“This is all very romantic, but I never want to see this grisly meat-hook in my practice ever again. OUT!”


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As yet highly incomplete, mostly an outline  
> REWRITE FORTHCOMING PRESENTLY OWING TO SOULCRUSHING REBELS FINALE

All Colan Casan wants to do is rest. He has earned it. He does not care that he has the body of a woman. He does not care that he is missing an eye, that half of his face is mangled into a permanent scowl, that he’s missing a hand again; all he cares about is that he and his partner Ahsoka Tano are alive. All he wants is to lie in bed with his arm around his beloved and maybe if he scrounges up the energy, for her to ride him and remind him he’s a man in spite of the long hair, hourglass waist, and ample chest.  
Rest however, for the time being, is postponed. His war might nearly be over, but the Empire is not totally defeated yet. Fortunately, the decisive victory at the Battle of Endor has rallied thousands more systems and millions more recruits to the cause of the nascent New Republic, and many veterans will receive well-deserved discharges if they choose to accept them.  
Casan still has some business to attend to. He needs to report to Home One’s cybernetics-machining division for the replacement of his eye and prosthetic hand at once, and in a few days when the waitlist for reconstructive surgery opens up to those with only superficial injuries, repair his face back to its unblemished state.  
Unblemished. What a strange twist of fate, he muses, that despite all these horrific sufferings and extensive medical reconstruction it barely affected how I looked. The visible characteristics that denoted the female sex, and had plagued him for a year, were hardly touched aside from the scar at the corner of his mouth rendering his perfectly crafted feminine beauty less perfect. No excuse to get these things on my chest removed. Oh well. He’s learned to live with the added weight on his chest and bottom. They are no longer a source of embarrassment, and frankly, he rather enjoys the attention given to them when grabbed by someone he loves. More importantly and most thankfully, the visible characteristics that denote the male sex were not affected at all, and remained safely in his trousers for repeated future use plowing orange fields.  
Casan returns to the mirror. He looks again at his face. The auburn hair. The green eyes. The thin nose. The strong jaw. After so much tribulation, at last he recognizes the reflection as his own.

After attending to the prosthetic repair, he receives a strange message.  
“Lieutenant Casan, report to the brig,” his comlink sounded officiously. “Two of the prisoners apparently asked for you by name.”  
“Right, I’m on my way,” he replied, intrigued and puzzled by the strange turn of events, and headed off towards the ship’s stockade from the cyber-repair ward.  
The troopers standing guard at Home One’s detention facilities cleared him for entry, and escorted him to the prisoner-of-war cells. They were almost all empty, most imperial captives having either been inducted into New Republic service or else transported to dedicated jails for processing repatriation to their homeworlds. The guards stopped him in front of a cell that was occupied by two Imperial Biker Scouts, one still helmeted, the other with his head in his hands. One of the guards rapped on the transparisteel wall to get their attention, and to Casan’s surprise, the trooper raised his head to reveal he was none other than his former comrade Sho Shon. Naturally he didn’t recognize him.  
The trooper keyed the intercom. “Prisoner 92A, please step forward. Your request has been granted. Lieutenant Casan has recovered from surgery and stands before you now.”  
“There must be some mistake,” Shon said. “Lt. Casan was a man.” He shook his head and sighed. “I guess it must have been a different Casan.”  
“No mistake,” the guard said indifferently. “Go on in,” he said toward Casan, and followed him in while the other stood watch outside.

By sheer coincidence, he was transferred to the unit on Endor and captured during the battle. Captured by ewoks; the spearhead stuck in his neck wasn’t mortal, so rebel medicos didn’t bother removing it. Needless to say, the reunion was less than stellar politically speaking, but the physical changes brought on by several years of age and war were a lot less noticeable on Shone than they were on Casan. They shoot the bull for a little while, but their paths have diverged too much. They part amicably enough, if a little awkwardly.  
Casan meets Shon and Marin again.  
\---be sure to go back and mention Marin and Shon find comfort in each other after Casan’s departure---

 

briefly cover that Ahsoka reunites with the Ghost crew (I might have Casan there as well)  
actually you know what  
I should have them meet  
just Kanan and Hera  
Hera will be surprised that Ahsoka's fucking a chick and then blind Kanan will go "a chick what are you talking about, all I see in the Force is Ahsoka and some guy"  
Play it for funny and feels

 

Persica awakes next to old Connel. He has been trying to keep watch on both her and the bloody entity in the bacta tanks that was his compatriot. He tells her what Casan did. She has received cybernetic legs; they are not covered by synth-flesh. To her they are permanent reminders of the harm she has caused – and the forgiveness she received. She appreciates Connel’s attention. He grips her hand.

 

Ahsoka resumes correspondence with the crew of the Ghost. No one is more enthusiastic to see her than Rex, who barely survived the skirmish on the sanctuary moon as part of the strike team.

 

they gotta get their asses back to chandrila to meet the fam, let them know whats goin on, then fuck off back to the first planet to settle down and raise a family  
and there's gonna be a few minor battles along the way but with the huge boost in rebel strength following endor, veterans get to end their tours of duty and go home

Casan travels back to Chandrila with Ahsoka, to resume correspondence with his family, reconciling the severe physical alterations since he saw them last. They still love him no matter how he looks and laud his actions helping the rebellion. They are pleased that his significant other is female; this means grandchildren. His clone stepfather suffers from advanced aging and severe mental degradation due to the cloning process and dies shortly after the reunion, but not before sharing war stories with Ahsoka. To once again converse with a Jedi consoles the old man before he passes. 

They move back to the place of their first meeting: Icnus There is no longer any imperial garrison. Nor is there rebel activity. They marry. Casan father's a daughter by Ahsoka; they name her Anza. He begins to worry about his role as a father figure to Anza given his non-masculine appearance. Then her first words are “daddy.”

With their little girl safely tucked in, they ducked out to the hallway, grinning in anticipation.  
“You know,” Casan began impishly, dancing his fingers up Ahsoka’s chest, “now that my body’s back to normal, the doctors say I can undergo a simple inexpensive procedure at any local clinic to change back whenever I want…temporarily of course.”  
“Of course,” she slyly agreed with a giggle. The laughter was infectious, and they took it with them to bed as they locked the door behind them.


End file.
